O Lago

the land-drunk poet and the

Rastafarian waitress 
had gone down to the lake's end, to see what it told them 
they had left all their wafers and all their shoelaces 
all of their tennis shoes and all of their hairpins 
the imaginable excess of two people bored out of their minds, and the 
diamond-blunt gleam of their glee 
They jumped into the lake and he yelled, "It's done." 
"What is?" she asked.
He honestly didn't know. Embarrassed, he tread in the lake water, and noticed his feet were wafting in duck shit.

Ibirapuera ForevaH

And the longing to find whatever they were running from.