In a winter marked

by long expanses of time

it was my duty to kill,

I drove through the desert

to see the “Sun Tunnels,”

the hulking cylinders

Nancy Holt arranged

as a scattered diamond

in the center of the Great Basin,

an artwork often credited

with granting a psychology

to the landscape, a landscape

where–if one lingers long

enough–it is possible to witness

the light confined tightly

in a frame, the light curated

& fractured into moon-like

crescents by the holes in the walls

meant to mimic constellations

such as Capricorn & Perseus

that Holt hoped would bring

the stars down to a human scale,

so that to enter the tunnels

is to be projected into

the geography, to exceed

oneself while remaining

at the center of things,

always at the center of things,

the light forced to signify

only when it fell against

the surfaces I was of two minds

about, still plummeting

through the hours, casting

my thoughts back through

the years to a day before

the day the holes were dug,

the foundation was poured,

& everything was smothered

under twenty tons

of concrete, steel, & earth.