Near Bend, OR

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Oregon, I remember you. The way your trees were unregretful and made imploring love to the rounded breasts of the sky. Tumble down to Portland in a jeep and see men so poor they have no home standing in line for soup. Standing in line for hymns, hope, a place without razor blades and naysayers to sleep. Tumble down to Portland and see the questions in their faces, the lost yet the found. The lines of mankind are long. No one to hold your place. Glisten in the evening rain, your blackened slicker coat ice cold. Travel down purple hills to the wisdom of the ocean water. Rocks like rugged teeth set back into a wilderness. Walk along spiraling ridges trying to leave your old name behind and find the knew one you hope to be too tired and blessed to deny.