A Long, Shallow Hill

we will make the right question

which will have no answer–

what is silence but the most precious possession?

the deadened sound? the nevermore?

what is not beyond touch?

voices? the past?

a sound that’s called your name

to be where you are–here on this hill–

a heaven for birdsong

would lengthen death’s worth

coiled inside the extended field

toiled & countless wonders

a substantial plane of erstwhile fingernail grime

stovepipe hats, binoculars & sunshine