5  An imagined land without hills and water


Would be uninhabitable except
A big flat drum on which the sky beats
Yearly rhythms of cold and pain
Only one of those trees needed
To show us where we come from and go
Birds playing around it like the souls
Of our children

In the hill under the earth and on it
And beside and in the water
Paths leading to the West
Leached and fading, never lost
A libidinal sheen and play
Of shadows of embarrassment and excitation
Each moment a childhood
Or a wave, sighing