Before the flood comes it will simplify

the argument of rock

the way we cover old belongings

with a unifying sheet

                                            In the dark of the tent

                                            she brought out words from sleep–

                                            Daughter      horsehair      peninsula      peninsula
A dazed morning draws attention to a crab

lugging a bit of drainpipe around on its body. It scrapes

the slabground and does not suggest a shell. I once read about
our landform on a piece of paper written by nobody,

the words on the page were the size of droplets on a mirror–

                                                        anyone can live

                                                        anywhere
and I remember this mostly when I sit down on the grass to eat.

Then the light switches on. The stacks of oil drums

reveal themselves against
those years of cooled lava. Everything

shakes like a mirage, and I see her run to her daughter.

This journey was for nothing when

anyone can live in a pod,

      a bunker, a bit of land,

      and a map is something

      you receive in halves.