Dwelling amidst mercurial images of nature, Never tire of looking at the stars sees flesh and flora meld into one another—a porous boundary between the states of life and death, body and nature—a humming cyclical landscape. Water glows from both within and without; eyes are bright as spectral bodies, pupils shrinking aperture-like into black pinpoints. These living things invoke each other—one is not merely the reflection of the other; they are each other’s emotionality: what is felt in the land, is felt in the body.

Stained-glass colours engender surreal affect and time hangs heavy as bright blue sky witnesses both day and twilight. Are these memories of a once-beautiful past, or are they lush visions of the future? Is the memory itself more beautiful than what was? There is no finality, just the ebb and flow of ever-changing light and darkness. Near the end of Louise Glück’s Averno, the speaker asks Zeus “how [to] endure the earth.” Zeus replies, “in a short time you will be here again. / And in the time between / you will forget everything / those fields of ice will be / the meadow of Elysium.”