The body with a dress made from stars stands at the mouth of the canyon at night.
The chin is tipped to the sky as though gazing into the past,
that light which travels from it, speaking.
The leaves of time extend from the body in all directions.

xxxxxThe radiant future and its geography blinds me to the past and reconfigures the
xxxxxskyline. Here with me now: you, the endless day of the midnight sun, mountains and
xxxxxrivers without end and without name, thousands of lakes looking up to the sky, a
xxxxxnesting loon, the whine of a super cub engine, the flick of a fishing line which ends in
xxxxxa delicate feather wrapped in thread, called a nymph, a boar tide flooding the inlet,
xxxxxmore mountains, more mountains: look, I have returned. I have found my bearings.

The words on the map let something pass through them, or between them.
Land in one setting is not the same land in others.
These spaces which are drawn, are named, re-named,
are not on the page but behind the symbols themselves, across the alpine meadow.
A hollowed out compartment which becomes filled up with an idea only in part one’s own
rings like a bell.

In the night, a series of clouds speak across the moon like a veil.
Faint and somewhat dappled, ink speckles a world which is hard to make out.

Observe:
the unbounded landscape appears like a regression bouncing against itself into the future.
A light in the water echoes against the waves, fragmenting into other smaller lights.
These are called reflections, or they might more appropriately, be called children.
A cup to hold this invisible history has become the primary quest.