Draft of a Landscape

after Paul Celan

              The hare’s
              dust pelt

against the juniper’s sky
              now

in the eye uncovered
a question clear

in the wing
              of the day and the predator

that writes
the animal’s luck, too.

Where is tomorrow?
Will tomorrow be beautiful?

Someone will answer.
Someone will remember

that dustcolored
              tragedy, incidental, belonging

to no one, arriving before
as a flock of cranes

protracted in a long descent
winging blind

to field—the days
are beautiful.