Alone on the Mountain
I climb up here only
to feel small again. Blue liquor
of distances: one sip and I start to lose
size, anger, the sticky burrs
of wanting. If only, What if—let the wind
carry it away.
Wave after wave of shadow comes over
the mountain, like some great
migration. Up here
everything's painted the four
bare colors: sky, cloud, rock, shadow.
To be the object of so much weather!
I'm the only one left at the end
of the last act. Everyone has died,
or gone off to be married.
Look how that tree
catches the wind, strains like a kite against
its patch of sky. That's
what I come for.
An important cloud
is making its way to some other mountain, to the sea,
scattering finches like poppy seeds.