The strange landscape over me,

the two sides of the river,

are like scaly snakeskin.

My powdered pale eyes

washed over desolate and dangerous-

My powdered pale eyes,

a colony of dry troglodytes.

Late in the afternoon,

my eyes cut the

descending, mysterious sun.

I gathered in the Lands

I gathered in the field

to consume the ground,

the ground that was running to

the sun, a yellow moon

like a universal heater.

Working from memory, I traveled

About home, before I slept

Wriggled,

And thought in any direction.

Suppose in the night

I overcome the odd outcrops

Eyes, a cold boundary between east and west.

caught like the ravines built barks of fire

My eyes were sharp like frost

My eyes were swept of creation.

Personality, exploration, an American writer.

A picture of my memories, diagnostic truths,

Identified as interest, not inquiry.

Eyes, apart in journey and put in process.