There are whispers in these hills
Stories that say these peaks were formed when god
Themself
Grew weary 
And left their washing up 
in divine magnificent piles amongst
The mortal land

Just as they planned

I hear one time the neighbors dug a hearty pair 
Of underwear
With flames on the bottom
Alongside their thicket 
They say it’s their ticket
Off of this hill and proof
That there’s more above than our little minds can reckon
I reckon, but

It’s hard to say that unders mislaid
Feels much like the ineffability 
I was promised.

And I can’t help but wonder what happens to this rock
If the great unknown ever runs out of socks.