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60 Iguassu Track one, the intertidal zone, bright sun— someone’s legs over legs, mouth to shoulder blade, ionized trace of aurora borealis a half-breath away wisps static rustle across a single speaker and a soprano sax lingers on a rim of cloud. Bright pinging and corrugated shuffle from the kitchen door, slow urge— Tenochtitlan mounded at the epicenter. There goes the modern exorcist with his bells and cloak. Tattered cloak. Everything burned, his earthly wares bequeathed to a skiff and sunk to the river bottom to consort with mollusks. What’s left? What’s left, says the guide, can be found at the westward terminal, Ciudad del Espirito Santo, a small stained aperture of syllables forming perfect homes, cathedrals, hotels with frescoes, courtyards, everything. Even busses to the waterfall. The sharp sun, out of breath, slips to its knees on the cinder track— stark astral for the ladder and short stretch. All mouth and shoulder blades. Near waterfall drumming. 61 Iguassu, seen already in the travelogues. I know that sound, borealis, washing out the eaves and flues. No sleep, no first ring of purgatory. No rings at all. I know the night heals. I know where there are chords like southern jungles filled with hissing octaves, faint harmonics, languid stones. ...

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