How a Place Tastes

Be still, and feel the waves of these hills
 these disruptions to how a place tastes
 Wooden walk, too many flowers
 Eyes were closed too tightly
 Like every book you never read in a library
 This is the currency of regret 
 You sit alone and bountiful
 on shores of ice
 Skate the sacred lawns
 Trade deeply these beads for memories
 Be still and let it happen
 A rhythm of syllables, and nothing just now gained