on the shores of the new land you will discard your mother tongue. clouds that drift by above will be echoes of words you once spoke, but now withhold. long after you are gone the knights of the air will reach the figments of your imagination, love, worry, harmony, as foreign as the giants of la mancha. the house you once lived in is a roughly timbered frame of smoke. it hovers over you, barely perceptible, imponderable like you. washed up onto the shore, an old comb,
the wrong sock in the right shoe. the crumpled horizon in your hand, an island of garish paper.