4.
Of the dry grasses.

Of the denaturing blaze.

The trans- to all my inactions
or the trance of conflagration?

One never knows which.

The ventricles do open
and shut with such vengeance.

Emily Wilson, "Radical Field"

for night.

                What urgency are the ruins
at Arromanches, those slow-molded, half-

submergible moons and the combs
of tidal verdigris you are come to.

Emily Wilson, "Via Dolorosa"

where to England rous'd

ignorant, her inane
Midas-like hunger: smoke
engrossed, cloud-cumbered,

a spectral people
raking among the ash;
its freedom a lost haul
of entailed riches.

Geoffrey Hill, "Dark Land"