At the Kansas Color Press where br we, the bag boys slung the heavy br sacks full of magazines onto trucks, br I worked with another young man br from Peru-I remember his voice br anxiously mining old stories br further down from far places, br from family, with copper light shining. br br After the Ancash earthquake br my friend went home, I supposed, br to search for the living and dead, br an avalanche of lost names and faces br infusing a voice which still carries br frayed pockets full of ancient unfoldings, br further down from gray surfaces, br from names, cities and their dying. br br They climb out of the rubble and grit br lining broken shafts of memories, br a ragged stumble of thoughts, an homage br scours the scattered remains and shrines br of cemeteries that once were towns br huddled under western Andean stars, br further down, far from Kansas, br from punch clocks, factories, the living. br br Further down this valley br roam channels emptying br into this mountain road, br wandering further br where my heart walks br reckoning toward br a country I barely make, br lit by a voice of copper light.