Roundstone.

Eyes levitate in the mist,
And are sucked in to form. Ten, Twelve,
Fifteen: “four-hundred years and no raise!
........Can you believe this shit!”

Thump
Thump.
And your name is called. Saint Patrick.
A gift from the underworld,
Gifts go both ways. An Irish evening: wet,
rain sideways or falling like bricks.
“I prefer it this way.”

Water continues to flow.
Rain three days under a sky of Hades,
Wandering. Lost. Out of season.
Hills turning to mud.
........Bodies turning to hills.

Hooves stop cold. The echo persists:
“Saint Patrick.”
Sweat turns to tears,
And wind pushes them home.

Contact: JohSha17@Evergreen.edu