the last remaining poet in the mountains

The last remaining poet in the mountains

not the city, where there’s hundreds, maybe dozens

Who convene at exhibitions on the body

not like those who chug on gallons just to feel

what they won’t write

In the mountains, you’re expected to be lonely

and poetic, if you’re simple, maybe stupid

If you live to grow a beard,

almost grey from all the years

They’ll be awed at your opinions on migration

They will hail you as the courage of the people

Lest your thoughts don’t correspond to politicians

Who will quickly disavow you over Gaza

And they will sell your whole surroundings for extraction

The last remaining poet in the mountains

Don’t forget who holds the barrel of a gun

And the hills surround the countryside forever

And you losers lost the war until you’ve won