Why not talk, ceaselessly, about only the landscape.
About our bad habits, of sowing and sleeping, of rising
early, of dying before our time?
We are this map calibrated to our bad fate. So we can’t
simply say: Ah the light, ah the fog, ah the grass. Instead we’ll say
that everyone says goodbye insofar as they can, blood
and the absurd knot that ends
of the last words I said to them and what I now say.