Past a chapped stone, moss-furred stone,
to the missing stone, then turn — the marker says
nothing here yet but you can rest regardless,
a space has opened up. Continue
along the newspaper stand where your cousin
has made a hundred thousand beautiful
offset-printed cotton-weave US dollars
and your best friend's lover comes
when he comes home just from the way
he drops his keys in the bowl. The finger-hold
of the press will slip, then release, keep driving
until the oil expires, you may meet an acquaintance
who is lost and thinks you're lost
and will tell stories about you so wind busily
sending tidy contradictory postcards home
at the dead grasses where the post-boxes were removed,
then at the echo station in the pit mine,
then just keep walking until you feel chewed
there will be a fallow pasture there where you can
realize you have been following a bilious starving
voice, after a moment it will cease, allowing the grass
to touch up audibly at the air: dwarfed, sufficient.