THIS is the body, our old body, and we have shed it. After which we arrived in Michigan. We have left the pressing bodies for the bodies of trees. Where we had a scarf of smoke over our eyes, even in the mountains, smoke and dust — the burning of leaves, of bodies, of tiny plastic wrappers spilling green fire, red dust stirred by buses up off the plains — now we have traded it for scarves of distance, miles around blue, you can see forever, nobody.