Hide from Burrow by Max García Conover

See I hide in my way. Never came home from the treeglow like water the willows will hold. And on good earth ride and will not open palms and will not advertise. So see I hide in my way. Though I climb toward the wood thrush I quarrel with too much. Maybe scores that they sung maybe moving my blood was just luck.

But all that you wrote was a nothing poem, just a breaking of bottles for wine. We’ll hide.

See I hide in my way. And I shy from the windows sew collars to my clothes. And outside becomes an idea, save the mountains for weekends the soil to feed you. And see I hide in my way. But I think I could beat this I could hold it and heave it, pinning steps up on trees for each fiction you read and believe in.

But all that you wrote was a nothing poem just a breaking of bottles for wine. We’ll hide.

• Folk
• acoustic
• andrew bird
• folk rock
• indie
• james vincent mcmorrow
• justin townes earl
• modern folk
• singer-songwriter
• Maine