He won’t ride a shod animal.
He prefers to trouble his head
to stand by the road unkempt
under a tree
waiting
how he will outlive me like a quotation.
Today we’ll go to other cities
on the border of the state, fields and houses.
At the entrance of every city
there’s an address written by the victors.
A woman in an apron
will come out with a sword
and look at us. Glaciers
and bells will ring.
And still, the exhaustion.
“There,” she will point as evening nears, “It’s not far.”