Issue 13, Summer 1956
It is the movement that disturbs the line,
Thickening the form,
Turning into warm
Compression what had once been cold and fine.
Seen from down here, if only we remained.
These hills are high:
Driving on, the sky
Imposes, and no longer can be trained
By any structure of the seeming ground.
Landscape, I discover,
As the car gains over
Something that changes from a little mound