on chimbote

There are faces carved into hillsides. Generations
of suffering slaves to hunger and thirst,
parched land butted up against water
water everywhere.

But tears remain and cut paths down
the dusted faces of children confused
by the white mooning about
of the likes of me and my kind.

It’s a kindness that’s earnest but
historically useless like a cloud
burst on deserted land.

It evaporates almost before
it can even penetrate
the substrate –
ultimately painfully sad.

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