I dreamt of sequin grass,

And of a chanticleer;

That crows, dun, quietly

Upon thy clover hare—

Foregone, thy company,

She runs, and disavows—

Laved in dew and slitting grass,

She bounds, a silhouette,

Across vermilion suns

and prodigal pines,

As if thee, ‘live and well,

Abound and leap by her side....

I dreamt of the golden hour;

Of a coppice

of sequin, blossoming grass...

When Charity said that she loved the wilderness, Shannon narrowed his eyes, and peered at the fell buildings spotting the grasslands where they had stopped to rest. He saw the abandoned chicken factory with the slanted, metal and tin patchwork roof; at the old homes with the silvering, slitted wood and the bulging porch and cobble chimneys; at that one barn with the browned wood and that was cloth...

And what remains

Of the days long spent

With the sun worn

On my skin?

Of the quiet we

Held in the grim white day

When we ran

Poor and led as the lamb;

When joy wore us

As the quilted star

On the silvering barns

And grasses,

Whereby in the torn cloth and

Crimson violet,

Vitiligo build of day,

we sought arrowheads

and Asteraceae...