Hillside and Heading Home.

You can't ever doubt the rushing wind, 

the sky we cover under streaks of smoke.

Lift our brass light high inside the stained hourglass,

threaded by sinew and tar, perched in dominance,

over our giant blue bloom.

All things will shine from this crooked sunlight.


Oil stains are seeping into dark bottoms of forests, unkempt and learned.

Seeing withering petals in this chemical pollen haze.

The smell of varnish.

Everything is the color of rust.


Starlight streaks over the echoed gullies, canyons in the mist.

A place where the wind will never stop.

A place where traveling demons lose their minds,

in the white plastic lining the ground.

The mountains scream to each other,

and each grow smaller, in time.


snowblind shadows seek the truth for the bags under their eyes.


Under the lit movement of our days, 

the circle city grows,

on scaffolding and bricks,

held together by bison fur and the unknowing worker.


we trade the hues of forgotten blues for the burning wheel in the sky.

Taste the iron in your lungs,

learn to fold your cards when you need to, 

and kick the wind the bends the aspens back.

You're home.

The End

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