SEAN PATRICK HILL
Sean Patrick Hill has published three books. He has an MFA from Warren Wilson College,
and poems either in or coming out in The Equalizer, TYPO, Spork, and The Blueshift
Journal. He lives in Kentucky (USA) and is also a father. And he sometimes take photos.
These poems are from a manuscript titled Discountry, which was a finalist for publication
both for New Michigan Press and Black Ocean.
irons in the cold.
Night iron, locked reaches of sky,
locked cold, unbroken ice.
In its acre of song,
persistent leaf, black will come,
always sing the climate we weather.
An acre of clime, an ache of ground,
breach of air
surrounding inevitable, hovering a river
of lethal sky
zero like a song.
Not too soon, few means as possible,
the vein of division, glimmering
land when we stood,
dock in mind, window in the horizon.
That men depend on men is holy, but.
Dreaming in sums,
standing paper trees in deserted banks,
driving us I declare
to bear distance,
to easy forgiving.
Room of wind
survive the ghosts.
Invite and it will not
In the entering that was here, when we came
we came down.
Twenty trees, the ancient house, orison
of the green of them, horizon a dream
sound of shadows with wind in them,
my age, pleased their shadows as I
be for this place
the sound in them.
If I Don't Lie
Summer sun, our kind of hope but
a shade in the earth.
Worms were keeping faith,
or better men.
dividends belong to rain,
to no truth be more honest than falling.
my sentence a song, an ark.
We speak until the world lies
birds without measure.
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