Like a woman in repose,
on display, dead, or at peace,
the mountain stretches over horizon,
shadow for hair,
girl's pinched nose of stone,
her breasts free clouds,
they rise smokey,
Marcus Aurelius mist,
stretched and pulled toward mystery,
see them go
like Mother's soul
up it went long ago
under cerulean skies
where yard met scrub,
she fretted her hours
upon a dull kitchen floor
slip-sliding away, daydreams,
mop in hand,
transistor radio sounds,
Marvin Gaye, Mo-Town bus ride
she waited to go
but he kept digging holes
many holes
drier and deeper
some water,
enough to tickle
a dying one's tongue,
but never enough to raise
crops or quench pride.
He rode the ghost horse,
black hatted, villainous,
Eli Wallach contra Eastwood,
man defeated, burned up in sunset
left his hatred
pulsing through me
like a gathering storm.
I carried it,
this thing, this wound,
drifting nomadic, lost,
close to my own end,
I dreamed of the mountain
again
in sepia silence
amidst Charlie Chaplin tears
in the theater of 10,000 awakenings
swallowed by shadow
vulnerable and small
I let him go
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