A town trying to be what it once was,
where houses built into hills
manage to stand despite the time and weather
and inevitable erosion.
Red brick from some valley quarry
adorn the fronts of every building,
an exchange from the gold they
harvested too many years ago.
Alone on an April Sunday morning,
Henry forgets the year.
Wearing his ragged vest and cowboy hat
he staggers from the alley where he slept.
Three long sweeping turns
up the road to Mount Moriah
where rest so many lost, forgotten
stories now forgotten histories.
One dream exchanged for another,
as many times again, again.
First dreams, last dreams,
a million in the middle.
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