what is it about this landscape early angle of light bouncing from flat of glass to glass in clean and eager cuts against the visible shrouds of exhaust expired breath of automobiles darkly herded swimming in their lanes light still so separate from the dark in the long arc of a hollow sun... this dissonance the chilled shade whose eyes close to brace the rising retinal burn of an overbright disc resurrecting illusions of warmth what is it about this landscape rimed with gold that draws the wilderness in my gut to grow hooves to stamp and dig among the briers, to eddy an inward sudden too much a wayward compass, those spooked adrenaline horses... until I can answer this question I cannot write the poem.