At the edge of the continent, islands
rising up from the sea like
the full moon
sudden and large and there,
demanding all your vision--
a faded chinese scroll
with no inscription,
no old men with walking sticks,
only the silence of blue space
and faraway things

Where the road bends, a turnout--
a place for snapshots and lovers,
the occasional suicide,
a place to see things  cut off
from the continent, these small islands
made sudden and large,
demanding.
          Everything
is far away, there's no discerning
the particulars like
                    waves or trees--
only misted over clumps of moss,
a blue denim sea unevenly faded.

Under your feet, packed dirt
loose stones and a fine blonde dust
quick to rise like smoke, quick
to settle, camouflaging cigarette butts,
a spent condom.
               Under your feet,
the continent.