This stone is milked,
This mountain,
A whole quarry of desiccation
Yet not a drop of blood -
What sport is your philosophy?

Where shall we stand when
The very land is made
A continent of imagining? 

I, for one, will be here.

If it is a desert,
The dunes are vast and shifting
As a god’s mathematics.

If it is a moon, then
It is a minor satellite,
Its atmosphere doubt-fouled,
Orbiting a planet parched of stone.
Here every flower fails.

I can report nothing wiser.