Rivers and Mountains

On the secret map the assassinsCloistered, the Moon River was markedNear the eighteen peaks and the cityOf humiliation and defeat - wan endingOf the trail among dry, papery leavesGray-brown quills like thoughtsIn the melodious but vast mass of today’sWriting through fields and swampsMarked, on the map, with little bunches of weeds.Certainly squirrels lived in the woodsBut devastation and dull sleep stillHung over the land, quelledThe rioters turned out of sleep in the peace of prisonsSinging on marble factory wallsDeaf consolation of minor tunes that packThe air with heavy invisible rodsPent in some sand valley fromWhich only quiet walking ever instructs.The bird flew over andSat - there was nothing else to do.Do not mistake its silence for pride or strengthOr the waterfall for a harborFull of light boats that is therePerforming for thousands of peopleIn clothes some with places to goOr games. Sometimes over the pillarOf square stones its impactMakes a light priint.So going around citiesTo get to other places you foundIt all on paper but the landWas made of paper processedTo look like ferns, mud or otherWhose sea unrolled its magicDistances and then rolled them upIts secret was only a pocketAfter all but some corners are darkerThan these moonless nights spent as on a raftIn the seclusion of a melody heardAs though through treesAnd you can never ignite their touchLong but there were homesFlung far out near the asperitiesOf a sharp, rocky pinnacleAnd other collective placesShadows ofineyards whose wineTasted of the forest floorFisheries and oyster bedsTides under the poleSeminaries of instruction, publicPlaces for electric lightAnd the major tax assessment areaWrinkled on the planOf election to public officeSixty-two years old bath and breakfastThe formal traffic, shadowsTo make it not worth joiningAfter the ox had pulled away the cart.Your plan was to separate the enemy into two groupsWith the razor-edged mountains between.It worked well on paperBut their camp had grownTo be the mountains and the mapCarefully peeled away and not tornWas the light, a tender but tough barkOn everything. Fortunately the war was solvedIn another way by isolating the two sectionsOf the enemy’s navy so that the mainlandWarded away the big floating ships.Light bounced off the endsOf the small gray waves to tellThem in the observatoryAbout the great drama that was being wonTo turn off the machineryAnd quietly move among the rustic landscapeScooping snow off the mountains rinsingThe coarser ones that love hadSlowly risen in the night to overflowWetting pillow and petalDetermined to place the letterOn the unassassinated president’s deskSo that a stamp could reproduce all thisIn detail, down to the last autumn leafAnd the affliction of June rideSlowly out into the sun-blackened landscape.