There is nothing. There is your city.

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

when 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 looming

in the world like snow on the hill in the air.