In the Hinterlands

the mountain hollow’s yellow meadow

thrumming under another morning fog

we curl around our private griefs

before mourning becomes a form of conformity

recall the headlonging rush of young buds

the grand flourishes the common sense we made

invasive weeds freed from all native constraints

to wander the earth planting our flags

it’s not easy out on the edge of civilization

the marching bands do their best

teams from rival towns smash into each other

the mascot’s feathered head rests in his hands