The rise and fall of seven hills like wavelengths pulsing the monitor,
I write about seven miles in seven styles and still my heart knows no solids.
In concert, they stamp their soft-so(u)led suede into the heart of hilly hills,
Tearing flesh like gills their imprint a wrinkled frown upon the topography.
Tan dust permeating into black felt divorces itself from (the) matter,
As their hats tip in the redness of the mo(u)rning.
Her last name a record, a dog-eared page beckoning closer ears,
RED SUNRISE: a Georgia O’Keefe bleeding her insides.
(The war dead innumerable could fit and fill these seven hills,
Their sighs syncopated in the wash of early, red light).
Mine, all mine. (=)! Yours, only yours.
Our phon(y)e(na)mes sound different as they stutter into existence.
Triptych: the before, the after, the ever after.
Cracked colonnades like broken teeth litter the landscape,
Yawning a beggar’s mouth.
Earthenware returns the earth to its initial state,
And leaves a fingerprint of turquoise enamel on what’s within reach.
I do (.) give back these smiles and glittering eyes,
Do return all of this and more.