At the Limit of Fertile Land

Mesmerized by the outline of a shadow cast by a phantom This torn wet-smelling hallucination of the body a pitiful remnant torn from weak old fingers The smoke trembling under the roof The sound of wind against the elm The thin perilous condition of negative entropy Discourse is not life Its time is not ours These are the arrows that kill sleep in the night at all hours The flood is gone, the ebb has come