We identify the plants, in the mountains near at hand.
The cigar grass and the pencil-box tree, the airy songs of the
sinking lake. The road is quadrangular,
we also sport our floppy hats, to ward off the hard
When the empty pen and paper squeeze their way among the
the sublime becomes a kind, green.
The names of all the flowers and grassy plants begin to glimmer,
but as we climb are soon snuffed out.
“Sniff and see,” he says.
In a torn leaf a single pupil
burns, burning our interminable hunger.
In the mountains near at hand,
we identify the plants, moreover eat as many as we
can. The mountain heights are quadrangular too.