To sip vodka from an ice glass at the Ice Hotel.
To sleep in the southernmost house in Tierra del Fuego.
To sit with a friend, tearing bits of bread
from the same loaf, chewing, listening.
To swim as slowly as possible and let
the lane’s dark tile ribbon tow me toward the far end.
To see through the eyes of the fat bees
that feed all day on oregano flowers.
To ask the ass how he dared take up the lyre
with only hooves for hands.
Then to sit quietly adoring that music.
