Monday, September 16, 2013

Altitude sickness

I want to climb your hardest mountain,
to enable the stone and find a single foothold 

to steady the what-is or what-might-be.

I want to breathe the narrow current swirling
somewhere on the map like the lazy
evaporation of pinot on your breath.

I would repast at the periodic table 
of your heart, but your theorems and proofs
are a drunken pedestrian dance of altitudes 


and elevations. I want to tell myself
when I am done fitting words to your absence
that you’ll compass the circumference 


of messages in bottles, possibly abacus 
the swallows in the eaves, drop by drop,
and perhaps, near the summit you'll allow

fingertips to navigate the flight of topographical 
butterflies drowning in your oxygen-starved
bloodstream, convinced they never needed air. 

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