At first it’s merely a slight light at the bottom of the stairs that hurts. The shadows of centuries past whiz by. It takes the man without land a long time to unlock the door. The rooms are teeming with electric pins. I, on the crust of the moon’s rim, am lackadaisical. I would go through any meadow, barefoot upon the shavings, lambs bleating in the distance, unjustly. They suck two-headedly at what’s evaporating. And nothing can be deposited into the wool. But long highways have been built. Electric wires wriggling like fish block access to the man without land. It seems I could remain here forever, rocking with moonglow. The journey has yet to begin, and we’re at the end.