Two rocks lean against each other by the side of the path forming a small tunnel that leads
down into "the cavern beneath the cave."

and the poet's voice speaks from no
           crevice in the ground between
                   mid-earth and underworld
breathing fumes of what is deadly to know

From a ridge my gaze descends to rows of plants where windmills pump water from a ditch.
Chevron prints of mountain bikes point forward and back. A young woman with a ponytail
of sleek black hair runs past me, her brown skin moist in the desiccating heat. A quick smile
and
I got really interested in that. In particular I started to think about spacecraft as artifacts of
human culture—really extreme kinds of artifacts of human culture. When it comes to time,
       she's gone.