The Hills

GEORGE OPPEN

POPULATION

Like a flat sea,

Here is where we are, the empty reaches

Empty of ourselves

Where dark, light, sound

Shatter the mind born

Alone to ocean

Save we are

You getting in

The old car sat down close

So close I turned and saw your eyes a woman's

Eyes. The patent

Latches on the windows

And the long hills whoever else's

Also ours.

PRODUCT

There is no beauty in New England like the boats.

Each itself, even the paint white

Dipping on each wave each time

At anchor, mast

And rigging tightly part of it,

Fresh from the dry tools

And the dry New England hands.

The bow soars, finds the waves

The hull accepts. Once someone

Put a bowl afloat

And there for all to see, for all the children

Even the New Englanders

Was boatness. What I've seen

Is all I find; myself.