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.