a dusting of dried grass on the crest of a hill
painted in thumbed-through grays
trees gnarled like cinched-up faces
and knotted muscles.

flowers breathe gently, steadily
and some kind of leftover love, torn
from years of neglect.

rooted fingers grow through, over,
around a ribcage under me
(a strange type of honor)
bright white sky riddled with blue
Rosenblum, Lieberman, Riulin, Riulin
me, sitting on Friedman,
stones balanced on smooth slopes,
thistle flowers holding hands

music is my passion, Siflinger says.
the wind sweeps by in a silent rustle.