On Hobbomock (The Sleeping Giant)

The stone giant sleeps in different time, a way in which hourglasses tick with shooting stars

We scale the farthest side of his neck, grabbing stone with fingers, thick, imagining Hobbomock’s toes

We catch our breath here, in quiet, linger on his nose, the stone castle obscured by tree stubble

These rubbled ridges of trap rock formed more than a millennia before, in origins infused with myth

of a ferocious force of heart and fist whose anger stamped this land, then paid the price

for Keiton the mighty arrived, alone, sending Hobbomock into slumber, on this volcanic mattress of stone

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