The wooded hills on either side of the Hudson River--

littered with crushed beer cans and used condoms, old Ford fenders

and pieces of rotting barns and gates. On his knees in the shade,

under the many trees it takes to umbrella such a man,

he sits. His mind was infected years ago--his brain 

sees elves as his eyes spy rocks. Every river bridge blows

sound down to the water; stopped there by the impact,

it lifts up and surrounds him like hungry vines--his necessary heel,

his large, ugly bird, the hairy mammal on his back. He tries to stand

and his knees pop--he is curious about this new noise, 

so close and strong and reeking of age. No children risk

the steepness above the old summer mansions for families who

spun gold and the tiny inns embraced by rose bushes--he waits in vain,

listless as smoke from a forgotten campfire,

all autumn dryness and sharp breaths, big and broken over,

eating twigs and weak squirrels, dreaming of beans.