You could take Brazil in an afternoon, sure.
Knock yerself out, call me when yr done, etc.
Consider that continent's arc: it's gesturing
across the Atlantic, towards Ghana, or was it
Côte d'Ivoire, or both? — you decide, call me
when it's done. Let us speak of it forever, or
more. Speak of vast hillsides slipping into a
river, the minute sunsets, postcards, babies,
paperbacks: everything at once, yet nothing at
all to remember or recall, situated as you are
inside a hand-drawn map of Minas Gerais,
weeping over Nascimento's 'Os Povos'. Your ...
move, perhaps? Vast as a view across an ocean,
invisible strings, dotted lines stretched out:
sewing the imaginary gap shut. Stick figures
tumble overboard; waves do nothing but leer,
their foamy peaks a bit like tankards raised
in empty bars (by persons 'sketchy', you add,
but then why bother? The effect has already
been achieved, its correspondances noted. AO.
About the author
David Prater is an Australian-born writer, editor and parent. His interests include mince pies, ice hockey and Joy Division.