In the distance there are only mountains
the hope of sky
rising from earth.
Enough to distract
from the weight of money
the constant pressure
of flesh, the vice
around my frontal lobe
that obliterates
all useful thought
all want of laughter.
Deliberation squeezes
every morsel from the marrow of my bones.
Forced words fester
until they are expelled
away from people
away from noise
away from you.
Toward the aspens
in a field of grass
long gold stalks swish in waves.
The wind carries our children's laughter
from a brushfire where marshmallows roast
each fluffy white bulb aflame.
Blow them out
lick gooey black scabs off of sticks
and always call out for more.
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