More on: landscape

I used to ask myself why humans go through sacrifices and insist on creating things that no one asked for or cares about. But not anymore. I realize that, in my case at least, it is simply an instinctive drive to do, and that’s my way of being.

So little is legible: glacial till, the moonlight on an iced-over ditch, The moon itself—an opal pruning hook. He could go on like this: list after list, A compendium apropos of nothing more than to place the speaker here, Pointing north, bewitched like a compass needle. Hard to make much that resembles poetry out of…