It snowed a foot since morning
& no one
at the Atmospheric Simulation Lab
but deer tracks
& a hawk large as a rock
you could not move
your-
self.

I’m here on my Nordic skis,
and the wind is blowing,
though not the kind that leads
to dunes of snow,
but drifts,
         rifts in what the land once was:
                           a meeting place
                           a hunting ground
                           a campsite
         & now just a place for experiments:
                           a lab
          in which we measure
          our own mark on the world.

Should you want to see
the war machines
on the other side
of the fence,
press your body
against the frozen
chain links.

A night camera between.

Its dusk.

It seems I’ve been deceived:
now, I think,
they’ll catch me.