And there’s this wall of mountains,
in winter now, a stretch
of brown and mauve, on the east
the highest are snow-capped
and look severe and rich.
An unbroken wall all along,
like a transfixed wave,
same shape – why,
why should it have changed?-
an imaginary hand following
the undulating fugue of its outline;
my company, my silence, since a child.
Mountains preparing the others,
bastions, and attendants before the masters,
my home at their feet, their outline
an eternal introduction to the sky.
My home is desert now, the spacing stare,
my crowd is gone, I am alone,
it seems slow, the past,
but in the present it’s fast
and fast it perpetually swarms.
But I’m still here,
watching the bastions,
the attendants to the lords,
waves before the waves,
I haven’t left yet
and I am gazing at the ever thick spots
of hanging oaks among the rocks
where we slid and talked,
I still sense the tightening roots
digressing under my boots,
I haven’t left, I am gazing
at the mountains, still the still
breaths of the future’s ribs.