several heads

The Eastern & Western sun, neither one,
	hates us, nor desires to hold or caress us with their large hands.

Skin resists, and releases, leaps and tenses
	while the heat & light arrive—simple, our nerves & their needs.

The hill might refuse its detractors,
	so the villain climbs her and plants in her a sharp flag.

All these worthy trophies.

Grass on hill. Grass under sun.
	Grass cut & grown again.

The grandfather without his voice hears
	the hill invite him, wild and full of human desire he does not name.

I have no legs, am a small monument atop the mound.

I would belay & belay you, though you have ceased 
	to thread the rope my way.

Our girl has given her brother a dandelion and a cup,
	no cliché but a gift.

Is this what you see when you lift yourself above
	your own lidded head—a belly and shoulders barely above the horizon?

Is this what I heard when you said the word sever?

The voiceless grandfather does not dream as he did.

The hill, its splendid violets and gifts of yellow, comes alive.

I can see from here and know these several heads.

Put them together, love. Yes, I hope, for the hill.
	Believe with me for a day, two heads, or more, are better than?