Somewhere on this earth, blanketed by stifled humidity. Near by a 'grillo' screams, and the heat
stands back, waiting, but eager to take more flesh,
and breed sweat.

Trujillo is not even a port, though a bay side village. The banana ships leave from out there, at puerto castilla. Here, the mountains rise up supporting a horizontal vision.

That must be us, our eyes span out, not vertical,
always seeing sideways. Cause maybe that the just perspective is from the ground and upwards into the stars.