The poem of the landscape flicks by.
Long black logs like the abandoned cigarettes
Of giants. Lonely houses, so I’m not sure
What I saw. A face and hand at the window?
Bleached tin and wood. A black dog stands guard
Over nothing. Desultory Cattle. Windmills
Turn forever like blank roulette wheels:
Everyone’s a loser. Gums cluster together
Their burnt history evident as a shared scar.
The occasional flash or black of water.
Off to our right and now left
The alienated highway : its anonymous traffic.
A huge greyness begins to drum on the roof of the train.
A black dog stands guard over nothing.