Right there, the streets out of sight.
Call me a little, pausing funeral;
hats off to the feet set going, the chief element of landscape.
There is nothing.
There is the roasted river where I go,
a hand on the universal shoulder in the face of invisible surveillance, secret dogs, unaccountable influences.
There is nothing in not ignoring it.
What is good?
My curiosity sways on an island with sounds. Things with seas.
Quick and still with wild, inmost, endless, grand disguises.
I am here exactly on this stage, and there is nothing loomingin the world like snow on the hill in the air.