WEBVTT

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You might come here Sunday on a
whim say your life broke down,

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the last good kiss
you had was years ago.

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You walk these streets laid out
by the insane past hotels that

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didn't last, bars that did the
tortured dry of local drivers

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to accelerate their lives.

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Only churches are kept up.

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The jail turns 70 this year.

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The only prisoner is always
in not knowing what he's done.

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The principal
supporting business

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now is rage, hatred
of the various grays,

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the mountain sands,
hatred of the mill,

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the silver bill repeal,
the best like girls

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who leave each year for Butte.

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One good restaurant and bars
can't wipe the boredom out.

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The 197 boom ain't
going silver mines,

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a dance floor built on springs.

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All memory resolves
itself and gaze.

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In panoramic green, you know the
cattle eat or two stacks high

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above the town, two dead kilns
the huge mill in collapse

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for 50 years that won't
fall finally down.

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Isn't this your life
that ancient kiss

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still burning out your eyes?

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Isn't this defeat so
accurate the church

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bells simply seems a
pure announcement ring

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and no one comes?

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Don't empty houses ring?

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Our magnesium and scorn
sufficient to support

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a town, not just Philipsburg,
but towns of towering blondes,

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good jazz and booze
the world will never

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let you have until the town
you came from dies inside.

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Say no to yourself,
the old man 20

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when the jail was
built still laughs

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although his lips collapse.

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Someday soon he says, I'll
go to sleep and not wake up.

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You tell him no, you're
talking to yourself.

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The car that brought
you here still runs.

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The money you buy lunch with
no matter where its mind is

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silver, and the girl
who serves you food

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is slender and her red
hair lights the wall.

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