by Larry Levis

    My love and I are inventing a country， which we

    can already see taking shape， as if wheels were

    passing through yellow mud. But there is a prob-

    lem： if we put a river in the country， it will thaw

    and begin flooding. If we put the river on the bor-

    der， there will be trouble. If we forget about the

    river， there will be no way out. There is already a

    sky over that country， waiting for clouds or smoke.

    Birds have flown into it， too. Each evening more

    trees fill with their eyes， and what they see we can

    never erase.

    One day it was snowing heavily， and again we were

    lying in bed， watching our country： we could

    make out the wide river for the first time， blue and

    moving. We seemed to be getting closer； we saw

    our wheel tracks leading into it and curving out

    of sight behind us. It looked like the land we had

    left， some smoke in the distance， but I wasn't sure.

    There were birds calling. The creaking of our

    wheels. And as we entered that country， it felt as if

    someone was touching our bare shoulders， lightly，

    for the last time.