The Lost City of Z

Surrender. When jungle green are your eyes
in the bombardier Somme,
you’ve had a destiny. Not that of the
but of a colonial man nonetheless.
Eager, like an anthropologist
if impossibly, a humanist,
to transcend the distinction of “savage”
and “native,” by ferns of ethereal
chords and palms of guileless glances.

I do not grab my destiny in these
141 minutes with the goal to usurp. The
venture down Amazonia is by a
white man, but not of. By a rio verde
twenty years later, a family man’s.
Reach exceeds grasp: a somber sonnet of
entitlement. The eye of the Other always fallen
in our royal mentions. And yet an old fashioned
playing, protagonist and genre that
in the April of 2017, is a hum, a Hunnam.

The form of several journeys
begins to meander and acquire its own
alluvium. Fear doesn’t bother into a
kernel… sublimes into
The colonel’s son to his left. Borne aloft
into a century of ridicule and
acquisition. The arrows that we fly on
and dart into fall upon mazes
and excavations. Poorly understood
a century later of less than humans.

Mapping is not the stark bootprint
of the colony. It can be a patriarch’s desire
for empathy. Geographies, wars, and the
square peg of family don’t round up.
What you bear is a line that you follow,
through a jungle of foes and amigos.
Through a forest of pottery’s
unto a history where civilizations
of centuries burn their
offerings like emblems on fire. Line’s glow
does eclipse sacrifice,
leaving last letters unto ember.