Hidden Valley

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Old Saint

Old saint, the immaculate,
is scattered,
everywhere, with
these winds
they whisper
with your aid
they freeze these
bullets, can you see old saint , how your loin
cloth is so costly,
I can
see now this evening, the casual
tramp of cold spring,
its intentions are
maimed, I watch them,
silent, I pray,
I see this silence,

it shines now and the dusk is
the seed of
the new season, it
conceals a mystery,
in these
winds, I see the
starlight with these wounds,
they are a dream, it is
a whisper.

I hear the train

I hear the train,
it seems a muffled kind
of thing, it seems to
say. It rushes off, to
see the blackbirds,
in these wintry trees,
they seem to move in
this jittering cold, cooing
and sighing they said,
as they all rise up,
to greet the lifting
wind, to watch its
lessening cascades,
those lips from which
it sings.


Waiting for this wet
deliverance, whose bridge
is sprinkling within this

whose candle flicker’s
soothing spray waits
silently through unknown


What a thrill, these green
and yellow fungus trees, my
thumb instead of the Earth’s

Blowing these living spores and
rustling leaves, can you hear
their invisible flowers, so silent
through the next hour,

but floating like a broken arrow,
then suddenly swaying, once the
wind begins to blow,

Can you see behind the
window, a blackbird’s dismembered
mausoleum, flat, ridiculous, and
very near,

it haunts the nearby grazing deer,
who live in constant fear, of my
delicate arrival.


I saw a dying pulse exposed
like sunlight’s flooding
unknowns, whose prayers were
pulled and stirred within
these hidden winds of clouds


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