and the sunlight dimmed with a rattle
and the woods made a bethel of their leaning
and the paths bowed because there is no such a thing as straight-forward
and we walked it sluggishly and insincerely
and the frith mourned god-fearingly for who had passed before
and dust hung pendant like the dots of our question marks
and the vessels tasted of bread and wine, which are the same
and they watched from the verge but had no eyes for it
and the tears of this path were older than breath
and we were allowed there only barely
and the snow came and the field opened itself
and the fence posts stood like exclamations
and those lights in the distance, tiny like punctuation...
and the night pressed its index on all until it flattened
and no trees offered shelter,
and no trees took it away
and the cold was a country with only one citizen at a time
and our trails were the only syntax this field would learn
and then even those were turned back to white
and the only dog was not barking and this mattered terribly,
and the frost made altars of the trenches and fire crackled in the kernel of winter wheat
and we stood there because to stand was the last verb left,
and it turned out that waiting itself was a form of architecture
and thresholds were the only forthright rooms
and nothing had to happen for everything to have already occurred
and patience was a physical thing you could drown in if you weren't careful
and careful was all we were and the world had been walked before
and the world had no record and the pastoral was just a test we'd failed by being gentle
and patience then filled our mouths and we'd forgotten how to swallow
and time was so slow it became a kind of weather
and we endured it until finally meaning flickered in the distance but never it approached
and we were grateful for this
and the ending was already there, standing in the trees, waiting for a cue
and we didn't mention it and it didn't mind
and the road kept curving and the field kept opening
and we kept not arriving, which was the point.