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.
