A curve in time, like a curve in a road,
veers man from his old way. The landscape
suddenly changes: wooden houses, the black
covering of the bridge, the green of the
fields. He sits on a rock. He doesn’t know
where he is. He can’t hear the voice calling
from the depths for him to return.

He knows he can advance
if his eyes do not fix
upon the known. Without moving
he senses a transformation that makes
what’s strange discernible
and familiar. And so he returns
to the rigour the gods stole
with the first scream.

Other men, meanwhile, advance
across this landscape, knocking down
fences. They have hoes, sickles, faces
blanched from insomnia. Some
laugh. And they sing when the land
opens in furrows that climb
the hills, go down the hills,
and are lost across the plains.

Perhaps one day
they will meet.