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.
Seventy years, and what’s left?Or better still, what’s gone before?A couple of lines, a day or two out in the cold?And all those books, those half-baked books,sweet yeast for the yellow dust?
