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The tobacco fields lie
fallow, the migrant pickers

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no longer visible, where
undocumented intelligences

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traveled on Earth
they had no stake in.

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Though the dark leaves
growing beneath white veils

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were beautiful, and
the barns opened out

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like fans, all this
of course, could

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have been done differently.

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This valley itself,
one more contradiction.

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The paradise feels,
the brute skyscrapers,

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the pesticidal wells.

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I have been wanting
for years to write

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a poem equal to these
material forces,

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and I have always failed.

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I wasn't looking for
a muse, only a reader

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by whom I could not be mistaken.

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