On the flats
The fever yields
There isn't any wisdom left
I'll build a barn and watch it mold
How sulfur sours Greenland's breath

I thought the elders leaning in
Had maps, kinetics, ancient bole
But now I see their wooden faces
Moaning
Lined with dusk and pale
Beholden to an early song
Still coiled on the rotten mother's meal

And as the pine becomes the snag
The evening widens
Clear
Unkind

Don't leave me on the flats
The fever yields
There isn't any wisdom left
I'll build a barn and watch it mold
How sulfur sours Greenland's breath