Hills Like Valleys

The mystery of the hills floating in the air around them,
So said the surveyor with a chart blown against his face.
The sun was continually strafing the landscape.
And also, continued the dispatcher, everyone’s cousins
With each other, keeping incest a family affair.

We came to the country to learn about ourselves.
Everywhere was a grave. A grove of trees was no different
Than a mole on an old lady’s face as she peered from a window.
That old foundation looks like my father’s favorite toilet.
That creek a trickle of blood down a fingerprint.

Now the sky drops leaflets on our heads. Tiny leaflets
Typeset in disappearing ink – they told us nothing.
Monarchs form a tiara on the crest of the hill.
And the crews working to put out the fire,
They smoke signal each other in romantic sonnets.