I scuttle across the hot sharp sand
up and down the dunes
past rocks the size of Volkswagens
through jungles of dried seaweed
And there before me is the mountain I seek
It is the Pao de Acucar rising out of the sand which I climb
And I become Christ the redeemer
Standing on the top of your big toe
Gazing heavenwards at your copy of the New Yorker
Held by those mysterious hands
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