Always mountains as arcs of hardened cloud,
as a voice in the noises in the rocks and flutter
loose the shadow through the supple air.
Even in peaks there is movement: too slow,
too swift for sight in the dark mirror
hanging there, always there before my eyes.
A man of eyes, and as I climb I am aware
of nothing but my vision shooting all
light into the darkness between your legs.
Sigh with sight and sign on the mountain
behind where I would lay you down
and sing into your mouth and sculpture
your back arching from the mourning sorrel.
But mountains are for solitary men:
the ropes that behind us keep us apart
and safe from the fall. How pale
under snow-burn cracking at the edge
of wincing eye half-closed with the sight
of a softer mound than this, just there.
When I fall, as I surely shall, with all
climbers of distant peaks, alone you will
be there upon the horizon as I stretch
out my kiss, the plummet with the contagious
laugh of, and whirl of the tender tearing
of the watchful bird of prey.