There is nothing, Nietzsche, in this night but the fallen moon and the carcasses of deer by the side of the road. Nothing but cold and the bare trees, a meteor in the sky and the long ride home to the empty house. Even memories are limping, Nietzsche, old Friedrich, old specter, the country lost, the whole world lost and too little time to recover. Once in a woods I thought I saw deep water, but it was only my need hobbling into autumn. There is nothing but watching Virtue end her abstinence and God walk away through steeple-stern landscapes. There is a noise outside and someone parking illegally, a handkerchief waving and willows dropping their leaves, a phone ringing and no one, Nietzsche, answering. There is the country of kindness into which I am moving, abandoning all umbilicals--my mother's arms, my father's voice, the glue of name--until there is no other way but her whom I love calling me like a flute or a bird out of the wilderness and the storm of history dying east of my body.