Announcing plans to a sleeping enemy
is no kind of strategy; instead, like the desert,
I must change raiment in the chill of night.

Awake at last, he will find a strange landscape
his old compass shattered, useless, his eyes
will feast on plateaus rounded, mesas pointed,

under a cloudless, foreign sky, no mercy, parched,
he will fall to suck from bottomless pools in arid
canyons from arroyos with no source, imagine

himself on a postcard, no return address.