On the bus from Huaral July 1
Nothing but the grey on grey
of a mountain disappearing into itself;
Nothing but the endless sand
spread out before us as if to taunt
“This is enough.” Nothing nothing nothing but
the foggy future and the dissipating past;
a house on a hill,
a military training camp.
Vacant trucks racing toward
the shadows of mountains
and our perpetual silence
singing now, louder than it ever has.