Poet, publisher and friend John Moritz died this past Saturday. Great sadness.<\/p>\n
Here is a poem from his book by the same title:<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/strong><\/p>\n Cartography<\/strong> <\/p>\n Night falls over abandoned hills, over the brown of grass, More on John & his work, here<\/a> & here<\/a>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Poet, publisher and friend John Moritz died this past Saturday. Great sadness. Here is a poem from his book by the same title: Cartography Night falls over abandoned hills, over the brown of grass,over...<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-475","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/475","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=475"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/475\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=475"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=475"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=475"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}\n
over those places the heart dwells. Those dark waves of inland sea
pitch on the arm of this vast lonliness.
The approach opens in the west. The map of a day gone
across the toss of bluestem hangs over the far slope.
A few scrub cottonwood, hedging the memory of a creek bed,
frame a resistence. In the last length of an orange filtered light,
the filter of sandstone passes through the broken tangle of branch.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n