You might come here Sunday on a whim say your life broke down,
the last good kiss you had was years ago.
You walk these streets laid out by the insane past hotels that
didn't last, bars that did the tortured dry of local drivers
to accelerate their lives.
Only churches are kept up.
The jail turns 70 this year.
The only prisoner is always in not knowing what he's done.
The principal supporting business
now is rage, hatred of the various grays,
the mountain sands, hatred of the mill,
the silver bill repeal, the best like girls
who leave each year for Butte.
One good restaurant and bars can't wipe the boredom out.
The 197 boom ain't going silver mines,
a dance floor built on springs.
All memory resolves itself and gaze.
In panoramic green, you know the cattle eat or two stacks high
above the town, two dead kilns the huge mill in collapse
for 50 years that won't fall finally down.
Isn't this your life that ancient kiss
still burning out your eyes?
Isn't this defeat so accurate the church
bells simply seems a pure announcement ring
and no one comes?
Don't empty houses ring?
Our magnesium and scorn sufficient to support
a town, not just Philipsburg, but towns of towering blondes,
good jazz and booze the world will never
let you have until the town you came from dies inside.
Say no to yourself, the old man 20
when the jail was built still laughs
although his lips collapse.
Someday soon he says, I'll go to sleep and not wake up.
You tell him no, you're talking to yourself.
The car that brought you here still runs.
The money you buy lunch with no matter where its mind is
silver, and the girl who serves you food
is slender and her red hair lights the wall.