In the underbelly of
the greatest declaration,
a small observer
watches

The hills are
covered.

Burning bushes is a painting.  
Moses never even knew.
The gold in the
packs is where the

party hid. Weighted.
Brilliant under the
leather
covers.

Looking out now are the
memories that
live for a short
spring,

Look out back
The unwovem sorrows

of

No news spoken.

As for me

I buy the cereal

before returning.


Caroline Shank
11.5.23