I climb up here only  
to feel small again. Blue liquor
of distances: one sip and I start to lose		 	 
size, anger, the sticky burrs
of wanting. If only, What if—let the wind		 	 
carry it away.

Wave after wave of shadow comes over 
the mountain, like some great 
migration. Up here
everything's painted the four 			      
bare colors: sky, cloud, rock, shadow.     	   

To be the object of so much weather!  
I'm the only one left at the end
of the last act. Everyone has died,   
or gone off to be married. 

Look how that tree 
catches the wind, strains like a kite against 
its patch of sky. That's 
what I come for.  
			An important cloud                     
is making its way to some other mountain, to the sea, 
scattering finches like poppy seeds.