controlled

Steady, unclean feet trample the hills of her verdant memories. I wait. What is their intent? Politicking, no doubt. Salesmen, carpet-baggers. Those woolen, plaid slacks. Those gaunt hats. Those falsetto banjos from deep in the mountains.

"What are you going on about?" they will ask.

She will be silent. She will forget what she should have written down and what was once brilliant.

Domestic profiles seen in foreign coastlines: it is not (entirely) new. Twirling of hair, charts manifested in multicolored strands of ink. Hold on. Just hold on. Please, just hold on.