Into the Interior

Mountain, mountain, mountain,

marking time. Each

nameless, wall beyond wall, wavering

redefinition of

horizon.

And through the months. The arrivals

at dusk in towns one must leave at daybreak

—were they

taken to heart, to be seen

always again,

or let go, those faces,

a door half-open, moss

by matchlight on an inscribed stone?

And by day

through the hours that

rustle about one dryly,

tall grass of the savannah

up to the eyes.

No alternative to the

one-man path.