A wandering gull makes random tracery
over the borderlands of Lima. I hear
the railcars shunting in the lonesome yard.
Here's my office : chart heroic errancy,
retrace Dad's folio. Peruse the maps,
the journals, clues, evidence; pursue
the path until it vanishes from view
into some cul-de-sac east of Peru. Perhaps
find what he sought. The maps unfold
(bug-spotted origami) – refold again;
the chase for lost primeval Azatlan
reverts to search for Leif the Bold
(himself). Into the elements explorers go;
into the capital's unspooled complexity
slip knotty guardians of verity
(gnarled snarlers in unruly limbo).
Desire for golden leaves on the lapels
shoulders aside a copula's rotundity,
its ruby wheel. Rabid ambiguity
shrivels into nonsense; truth repels.
Below, a ruined rock still squeezes
rust from its accordion (the rose
of its accord). Ungainly willows
anchor the tired swing's oscillations.
The scrap, the dented implements,
skewed directives, waterlogged books...
– here's where Mark spots the X – looks
like a 9-stringed lute! – makes no sense...
Moving on now into a second section of Rest Note. This one will be a little different (that is the plan, anyway). The "scene" (if you can call it that) is the office of Brian Fawcett, son of Col. Percy Fawcett & editor of his papers.