Here’s to this train, to the wine
of Patagonia, the empanadas;
to this cut of meat
complicating the plate;
to the wild boar
that turned on its axis
in a restaurant window.

We raise our glasses
to the Porteno boy
who juggled five lemons
as the subway car staggered
and swung; to the barefooted girls
waiting in narrow doorways
with upturned palms.

I raise my glass
to the Patagonian sand
lifted and glorified by wind;
to the woman crossing her field
bent over her cane;
to her sheep; to the house
expecting nothing, and the tree,
blackened with dusk.

Here’s to the Andean mountains
that sent snow to bury cattle
now breaded with sand.
To the moon, gleaming
like an olive. To all
who peer from half-opened doors.
May we wander the world,
forgotten, expecting nothing,
recording everything.

From Cathedral (Ronsdale Press, 2010).
Used with the author’s permission.