Profoundly occupied with other things,

I have begun to dream of older you,

of ancient places uprooted, anew,

the evidence of Merciful abuse.

We want the Mountain’s planetary sleep,

eternal and yet tender, warm yet blue,

deciduousness, verities, curfew

of sleepy treetops, restless pines that muse.

To brood is not to question, but to flee

into the placeless wilds of the Mind,

the vastness of the Hilltops, endless pines,

the stretch of wilderness of silent clime.

The snows are long here, longer than my Eyes,

though bore they try to into the refuse

of everything to perish ever, groomed

by cleaning forces of the heavens, too.



after “So Much Magnificence” and “Hollow Talk