Hill-eyes

Between children's parties
and loose, late hour energy
where I still hear her screaming
and find her drooling,
I drift naturally
into lusting for annual quiet,
seldom seen entirely self focused hours,
where I'll lounge on familiar mountains,
strain only tea, sharpen pencils
and bury words,
and steal someone, anyone
who'll escape with me,
not some half hour down time,
not some weekend in a far off land
but become hermits
and eat each other wholely,
painted in mud,
hiding from the city
dwellers touristing,
and if I can't manage that
instead go
somewhere reckless,
where they serve overproof rum
and a language of love
until I am hanging
on an idea of freedom,
sat somewhere
on a mound of dull heart.