66.

Dusk falls over a land cut and crossed,

Road, rail, drive, path. Fields lie flooded

By the river. The philosophers are

All asleep. One kind of tree looks as though

It is full of eagle nests. Everywhere

Wires and wire fences filter the eye,

And the woods are framed by movement

And energy, the restlessness of this generation,

Its thirst for power. Historical

Geography is a love letter, which,

Some might add, has gone astray

Or bad. The moon will soon rise above the smoke.

Love does not dawn on us out of nature

But is written on the land, our skin.

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