The poem
You think the ridge hills flowing, breaking with ups and downs will, though, building constancy into the black foreground
for each sunset, hold on to you, if dreams wander, give reality recurrence enough to keep an image clear, but then you realize, time
going on, that time's residual like the last ice age's cool still in the rocks, averaged maybe with the cool of the age before, that
not only are you not being held onto but where else could time do so well without you, what is your time where so much time is saved?