Pastoral reprise

The hills were alive with music,
but more like living
with singing.
In the sense of:
that hand is a particle,
this, a
mechanical sound, almost,
but hollow.
In the sense of:
turtles
Being emptied from their shells.
Into the soup
was the rule.

God, he says, we've filled our hills
with this shit.

That's not polite, she returns,
scratching her shoulder against the bark.
Which, then,
unsuprisingly,
fell to the dirt.
That's just not polite.

I can remember discussing Engels,
and certain utopian metaphysicians,
but that was always
beside the point.
Hills, meadows, the like,
were beside the point.

The point was to think like rats.

Not hum
Beethoven.

She gestures:
I like that one that ends with cannons.