Sunday, July 5, 2015

The Hermit of Pine Valley Mountain

This is why we live here, drunk on places,
Talking to ourselves forever,
Shouting, singing, and whispering
Across the shuddering landscape,

The common imagination
Of vanishing human beings.
Clouds of the inconsequential
Hang tattered championship flags

From the trumpets of deserted
Blue heaven. The stones no one placed
Disport themselves in black and white,
Dirty wet sheep on the thin green.

I am their shepherd, the weather
Their sheepdog. Everything is small.
The sum of everything is vast
Desolation. I am in love.

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