Darren Higgins
Here the sun must be ferried over the mountains
like Fitzcarraldo's steamship
Morning hardens
The plaited ropes scorch our palms
scoring them
like sheet music—the sound of the trees
felled, the groaning cables, the pulleys' rooster wail
Resting, we hold up our hands
and read the labor
of these hours as if from a great distance
What can I tell you about the moment the sun
sails off, free of us, on the other side?
Every day it is the same
machinery