Touch Creta wherever you want to seize a thing from out of the unfriendly earth.
This is a sound we make furious with mineral imagination, the heave of site
advertising what we love of the future, but which is just land unsuitable for farming.
Mine is a cover for rocks much like the rest but only these are mine—
this is a land that only I can open, and I will line my position with structures.
A town of Creta forgot to catch a feel for history, leaving nothing.
The mines opened after the wake had evened out.
This is how everything is fit to the bundle of was—not a trace of splash
but the unavoidable loss of stillness pulsing in new ways.
What left the land knew the dirt as well as the miners had.
Towns create enormous piles of knowing, of dreams
sown into everything in the dead of night.
It is not dug up and carried away.
It will not be processed.
In a roughly peopled width of space, Creta is a sign grown into
fathers and rust-turf, mothers and wind-dress, a thought just looking
outside at the everyday the town never got to reach.
The mine is not only a word for economy and scratch,
but also the way the home hears itself in a mind.