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Always Mountains

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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.