“Buttocks” by Paulo Brandao (Creative Commons)

Paulo Brandao


Those Hills


Those hills I set my heart on,
rose-hued, rounded as a peach
cleft down the center part on
a trunk beyond my reach—
I’ve idled through them often,
day-dreaming on the grass;
my step and touch would soften
in shy pursuance as
I didn’t want to bruise them.
But now, I’d course them rough,
boot-slapping, I’d abuse them,
kick up their musky duff.
I’d take them if I could—
those hills that give me wood.