. .

Barely seen, the landscape is nothingshaped. It’s a condition of evening to be nethered — empty-bellied — having already spilled its roots-rosaries. There are wind-instructed votaries, the liquid’s recipients, bent till they are indistinguishable from the field: poses soaked; unidentifiable lengthiness; eagerness and devotion without their customary luminescence.

Shaking the slickrunning furs off its shoulders, rises with intent, the benefactor. A movement of mothers towards their cribs of coal, catching themselves midway; intent is no longer present, action is not possible: there is no one here at all.