cxvix.

in the haze
where the surf cracks
on the rocks,

the cliffs fall and roll,
and return,
polished

jewels scattered across
the shore,

eventually, feed the grass
and the succulents

falling down the cliffs,
at the foot of the hills,

patches of lights
knots of roads,
houses, and the range

cuts the sky, but rolling,
and the pines dip,
and roll--

the moon high, haloed,
and square of Jupiter,
Saturn,

Mars to the right, across
from them,

the world can change, on
contingency,
but not much--I'll see you

in the haze, and through it,
I'll be seeing you,
all along the surface roads,

and highways, icy wind or
dry grass, or leaves
hanging and weaving over

the line, in the chill fog,
in sun setting,
behind the dark valleys

below the spine of the
high range,

shuddering, or standing,
in the steam of the last
cup of tea, 

before entering night's
strange country,

and the glittering fringe
at it's borders,

I don't forget anything, and
why should I, anyway?