The Hill

–Where we might have decided to climb ourselves, were it not for
this blindness we all seemed to suffer
the hill, the hill
we implicated every day with inhibitions that only dripped suffering blood
blood so thin we lost any calculation of how fast it fell out


it is where we wounded ourselves, how we decided to turn back
on the long climb past the relics of our future, the stone wreckage shaped into
empty beds, or full ones, empty bottles or full ones
while the prairie grass sliced at our climbing feet


We have run out of all the chances we gave us, all the glimpses of morning glory
we would have spied–except we didn’t want that
never sure what we wanted, if there were even chances at all.