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Hilltop: A Literary Paper. Volume 1 Number 1



All of the time we've lived, it seems
We've been becoming something else
Rather, and other than our dreams,
Than passion's pith, than being's pulse.

Not knowing elseness of ourselves,
Alternatives have never sprung
Clear in the crystalling of waves,
Spring in the sap of verbs unsung.

But all the time, and all the time
We've been becoming other than
Merely our being as we were, climb
Lessingly backward no one can.

And there's another that we'd love
Under the unguent rind of self
Beneath the mind, whose currents move
Deep and mysterious as surf.