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.