not to be a landscape photographer.
i’d destroy this word nature
for separating selves
it implies a should outside what would
to make one lose one’s place.
what sort of world is it? i wonder every day.
a name can be a picture
and i can see it where i say it, or the mountain
can be a picture, deflated and folded
away. do i believe in peace?
i may as well start lying.
these lofty spheres never fail
to rub. have i dreamed
release? this must be trying.
the birds have not yet missed a season.
a rock has taken
the place of feeling.
and for all i’ve felt
i’ll go to hell, perhaps
that’s where the beginning is waiting.