Simple Theories

to the moon of seen things and sentences enjoying that place of got time, to the place of wilding reading, to the place of town with children gaining light times, give joy or a curate come to speak words fined and darted, words plain and return, words without the city plans but sighted in the midst of us

I didn’t realize America was so far away rosebuds collected in memory the Beartooth Mountains from the beginning language like thought in misery of politics going on from afar

Winds blow cold in the dawn of climbing. The hill before the morning steadies in veil while the townsfolk—they invented Plymouth Rock—their sleep is a pasture. The deeds of lurking and obsession still the rivers, rivals campaign. The hill is bare of knowledge, Cold in token. Death becomes the faction of seed while snow remains cold. No farmstead bursts into bloom tho burning homes are known. No one can see the hilltop now, only choices for a simple day. The language of this fits everyone, in testate and loss.  The even stones become clear as words upon a bough. The hill is an afterthought of sunrise.