The Great Scribe, who remembers nothing,not even your name the instant he writes it down,Would like it up here, I think,The blank page of the sundown sky, the tamarack quill points,and no one to answer for.
That landscape—unpeopled, unburiable, sun-stunned—Lifts me re-orphaned out of languageInto the nomenclature of stones,unangeled, unsought-for.
There comes a time in one’s life when one wants time, a lot of time, with inanimate things.
We lay out our own dark end,guilt, and the happiness of guilt.
