I breathed in the rank smell of horses, breathing out a memory of a school class
in Brooklyn, in which a boy, clothes reaking of the stables in which he worked,
was mocked by students, including myself.

   I work the way down
   into the dry riverbed

   where two dead trees
   were recently planted.

All around me are fields of rusty weeds, "where the ores of the earth contain the 'seeds'
of their own future transformation," where history mixes fertile earth with the ceaseless
letting of blood. For billions of years the sun has watched this carnage, without judging.