Left to solitude, I plan in advance
that I might deflect a sympathy invite.
In snatches of time at the office,
I make the list of those I loved
on three sheets in a spiral.

On Thursday in Hanging Rock Park,
leaves rain to the forest floor in
a carnal odor of red decay.
A frost blanket lies in laurel shade
beside the brook that gurgles beneath
creaking planks of the foot bridge.
In blue suede Timberland boots,
my lug soles stub and stumble
on hidden rocks.

I hike the forest path for one mile,
then ascend the south face two more,
bound for Moore‘s Knob,
this range’s highest point.
In an hour, I reach the summit
creep to the ledge and settle
where the rock forms a bench.
A cool breeze dries the sweat.

Old friends, this mountain and I, and
new ones found in a kettle of vultures,
fan winged specters, circling shadows.
A five-lined skink spreads his toes
on warm granite, his blue tail forms "S."
From the knapsack, I lay out ceremonials:
three sheaves, one cigar, one bottle of stout.
Here, I feel no self-consciousness
so I stiffen my back, set my shoulders,
and read the list to the valley in loud formality...

Dad, Charles Bukowski, Rainbow Jayne, Curly Howard,
Emily Dickinson, The Adorable Adrian Adonis, Bela Lugosi,
Mama Cass, Ed Wood, Joe Strummer, Isadora Duncan,
Doctor Shock, Huntz Hall, Aunt Kathleen, George Harrison,
Mr. Jenko, Barnyard Bernard, Li Po, Ernest Hemingway,
Leonard, Carson McCullers, Pugsly, Jeremy Brett...

…Afterwards, to their honor
I roll the thin Panatela in my fingers,
watch the cone of smoke at the tip.
Sips of Guinness follow nut-flavor puffs,
the tastes of deep autumn inside me.
With the orange sun halved by horizon
I turn toward November shadows
and begin my descent to the valley
of resounding toll.

07/05/2005

Posted on 07/06/2005
Copyright © 2026 David Hill