Knowing the shape of the country. Knowing the midway travels
of
migrant fanatics, living that life, up with the dawn and
moving as long as the light lasts, and when the sun is falling
to wait, still standing;
and when the black has come, at last lie down, too tired to
turn to each other, feeling only the land’s demand under them.
Shape that exists not as permanent quality, but varies with
even the movement of bone.
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