Where is the dwelling place of light?

　　And where is the house of darkness?

　　Go about; walk the limits of the land.

　　Do you know a path between them?

　　Job 38：19-20

　　The enigma of August.

　　Season of dust and teenage arson.

　　The nightly whine of pickup trucks　bouncing through the sumac　beneath the Co-Operative power lines，　　country & western booming from woofers　carved into the doors.

　　A trace of smoke　when the wins shifts，spun gravel rattling the fenders of cars，　the groan of clutch and transaxle，pickup trucks， arriving at a friction point，gunning from nowhere to nowhere.　The duets begin. A compact disc，a single line of muted trumpet，plays against the sirens　pursuing the smoke of grass fires.　I love a painter.

　　On a new canvas，she paints the neighbor's field.　She paints it without trees，　and paints the field beyond the field，the field that has no trees，　and the upturned Jesus boat，made into a planter，"For God so loved the world. . ."　a citation from John， chapter and verse，　splattered across the bow　the boat spills roses into the weeds.

　　What does the stray dog know，　after a taste of what is holy?　The sun pulls her shadow toward me，　an undulant shape that shelters the grass，an unaimed thing.　In the gray house， the tiny house，　in '52 there was a fire. The old woman，　drunk and smoking cigarettes， fell asleep.　The winter of the blizzard and her son　　Not coming home from the Yalu.

　　There are times I still smell smoke.　There are days I know she set the fire　and why.　Last night， lightning to the south.　Here， nothing， though along the river　the wind upends a willow，　a gorgon of leaves and bottom-up clod　browning in the afternoon sun.　In the museum we dispute　　the poet's epiphany call——　white light or more warmth?

　　And what is the Greek word for the flesh，　and the body apart from the spirit，　meaning even the body opposed to the spirit?　I do not know this word.　Dante claims there are pools of fire　in the middle regions of hell，but the lowest circles are lakes of ice，offering the hope our greatest sins　aren't the passions but indifference.　And the willow grew for years　With no real hold upon the ground.

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（编辑：王美娇）