Potosí

The screen goes black and I am left

with a reflection of my own tired neck.

In Bolivia, the salt flats are a white sheet

stretched tight across the ribs of the world.

I check the savings account again.

The number is static, a small, cold bird

that won't fly. It is exactly the cost

of the pipe that burst under the sink.

I spill the salt shaker on the Formica

and watch the pink grains scatter.

I want to stand where the sky and the ground

are the same lie, but I am just here,

listening to the drip in the dark.