Root and sky,

I am a translator.I possess sanctuary, the word;looking for its missing parent
the shadow of a weary family dwells on the sinister face of the mountain.

Clouds have regained their stolen opacity.

The sun is a perfect circle

and silence.

            Hoof and wing,

the height where space travel becomes animal instinct.The theory of constellations:take a cosmic razorto the horizon,where the spoils of day,free from the body,–a word with no origin–survive after dark in a dissolving blue
Unforgive, tear; skim the eye.The star is not here to save youyet;
it is merely the best burning that exists outside the body.
A green fierce fights life for its life on this peak,and a red ribbon, easy to fray, makes a case for restraint:

                        delicacy is what it takes to protect delicacy

What is a stone to the tower?

                        Heat to a fallen log?

My skin smells like it’s just dried from jumping in a lake.

Our rainwater intellect:

petrichor? promontory? peak, peak, peak

It’s cold up here—

                                                                  I can’t say what the moon does—

the mountaincannot achieve,

            triumphant gravesite belonging to no one.

I’m seeing the world, scarcely a thousand wordsto give for one gradient of rock, a carcass,a quest,

my dilating sense of grand.

I start eating the grass.

Photo by Timon Studler on Unsplash