And what did you see, sequoia-quiet, looking out at black 
night. No islands, no kings or corridors of fury. 
But the districts where we were born, a few icy stars, 
the moon’s beaming chalk thirst. Above the painted desert, 
the air rustles at your wrists, pulls away from the long 
industry on land, up into those far lights. A vast ordinance, 
unspoken, with no need to be spoken. Those who 
did not have to die. Yourself, and all you loved.