The Incremental Violence of a Passing Hour 

Singing in circles 
with no building 
and no falling.
The hill doesn’t stay so for long, really.
As the generations pass, pieces crumbling 
taken by wind and stream. 
Little flourishes of melody 
playing out ‘cross the land,
travel to big river and then reach the sea.

Tales of woe and disbelief.
Tales of love and sun snatching.
All are washed away as the waves come to beach.
The salt makes all clear.

And that Spring,
starry voids ring out before my eyes 
cause one day my chest rings out for the last time,
ice cracking.
And one days these bones will bleed,
glacial stream.

And the stream starts in the Spring melt.
And the stream starts, watering the hairy meadow which hugs my form.
A spring of being excused by the simple things.
A spring of always return always desire always need
Always wash away always wipe clean.
None attach but everything 
little keyrings of the time I been adorning 
every step a vacation on unknown beach.
No need to feel diseased.
Can’t stop the tide from coming in.