Awakening— kept up late— encountered marauding
gangs screaming as if ghosts were chasing them.
Still awake—rousing on the streets of Cusco—

Old walls built on top of Inca stones, passing inimitable
wrought iron doorways, balconies, The sudden expanse
of a wall, painted pink, window frames, portals stained

Rich cobalt blue. People of the Andes— arousing
copper-skinned women— long black hair—straight
braids, bowler hats, full skirts on short bodies

Woven blankets around their shoulders—wide-eyed
infants tucked in. A man walks a black bristle-haired
pig, a boy hunched over the weight of a huge basket

Holding green-gold wheat. In a black kettle on the
street, a woman cooking chorrouchos (donuts)—
rolled in powdered sugar. Endless rows of

Campesinos hawking colorful, alluring wares—
breakfasts on patios punctuated by mate de coca,
thin, airy bread toasted, cooled, sprinkled with sugar,

Psychedelic yellow butter. In the cemetery, the Fiesta
bustles extraordinary colors, shapes, textures, sounds,
aromas— seething with the humanity of it—

Clearly, the cult of the dead has not calmed down.
Women sell bundles of lilies, carnations, narcissus,
marguerites— children with kettles of white pudding.

Stands with offering for the dead—roasted rabbits
stuffed with quinoa, guinea pigs replete with a roasted
apple in their mouths. Little kids with buckets of water

Offering to clean up windows of the mausoleum
— walking amidst aisles and aisles of gold-framed
silver-adorned monuments.

Views come out of a field of dreams where the poor are
stashed, buried— most beautiful on El Dio de les Muertes— countless flowers.