RADIO WAVES ARE
DEAD THESE DAYS
I met the self-saved curate on his little
hill; near where his church had crumbled
in. He was holding a block of stone and
awaiting new words from above. I said,
'Don't wait; it'll come, and your God, yes
always wins.' Simple stuff, my conclusions.
-
Mongaup Hill, or Pass, or something.
Abandoned farmlands, crumbling
structures, a group of deadened cars
and trucks where farmhands used to be.
Now two horses mangle hay among
the wreckage. A farmhouse down the
lane looks old and modern together.
-
Every little place I see passes for
something - the general stores, with
their cans on the shelves and the odd
woman who clerks and greets. It's
always nice enough to want to stay.
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