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.


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...

No comments: