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Literature Text
They who scale mountains
content themselves with the feeling
of love, not confirmed
with action. They can fly the arrow- never mistake- truer
than any romantic. But
height is a lofty mistress, and the
keenness of the wind is
ever seductive, because it whistles
the story clearly that gets
mangled below.
Who -wants- to get mangled?
We are not beasts of burden, even if
we've worn this fur for thousands of years.
To dive from the clean, clean edge into
chaos is unthinkable.
To frolic among the tumbling bodies
and risk trampling and being trampled
is enough to curl back and reach
for the highminded pleasures
of love
Oh, but such a dream
veiling a cliff's face
eventually reveals itself to
appear only to those who
fall from the sky. So the lover
spends all her time devising paths
of climbing
to those below. She braids the ropes
and drops the chains, even taking a sledgehammer
to the rocks for a perilous winding road
but the danger she
undermines, and it is
few who exceed the intimacy of
faraway star-crossed beings.
Freezing, the lover on top of the mountain
searches for an answer
to the cold
and smelling in it the answers
to longing, where every foot rising from the bottom
is another symbol of reckless
fondness, waiting for the heart to wake up
Are there those who dare
ascend to the top? She dreams of them
clustering there, in new constellations.
content themselves with the feeling
of love, not confirmed
with action. They can fly the arrow- never mistake- truer
than any romantic. But
height is a lofty mistress, and the
keenness of the wind is
ever seductive, because it whistles
the story clearly that gets
mangled below.
Who -wants- to get mangled?
We are not beasts of burden, even if
we've worn this fur for thousands of years.
To dive from the clean, clean edge into
chaos is unthinkable.
To frolic among the tumbling bodies
and risk trampling and being trampled
is enough to curl back and reach
for the highminded pleasures
of love
Oh, but such a dream
veiling a cliff's face
eventually reveals itself to
appear only to those who
fall from the sky. So the lover
spends all her time devising paths
of climbing
to those below. She braids the ropes
and drops the chains, even taking a sledgehammer
to the rocks for a perilous winding road
but the danger she
undermines, and it is
few who exceed the intimacy of
faraway star-crossed beings.
Freezing, the lover on top of the mountain
searches for an answer
to the cold
and smelling in it the answers
to longing, where every foot rising from the bottom
is another symbol of reckless
fondness, waiting for the heart to wake up
Are there those who dare
ascend to the top? She dreams of them
clustering there, in new constellations.
Literature
Subduction
We drip into October
with the silence of spiders
heavy in our chests,
our hearts curling in
on themselves like
leaves in autumn.
Lungs unfurl into the
stillness;
there is a breath, a whisper--
This dying wind whistles
through empty throats,
as if to murmur a warning,
perhaps, that we threaten
to become
earthquakes
along our hipbones.
Literature
Harvest Moon
You remind me of the harvest moon
tugging the shore from beneath my feet, of
rowing out to sea in winter with empty nets
till spring, of catching every breath
in crystals on the same forgotten docks,
Where gravity knots my tendons into rope,
my teeth into chalk and ash, and my eyes
into searchlights scanning the horizon
for the first ship that leads to you.
Literature
A Mountain
having spun
a mountain
on a record
deck, causing
earthquakes
when faultlines
strained to hear
the needle
reading trees,
streams, valleys
and crags,
it has grown
obvious
that Giza's
pyramids
could pass through
the eye
of a needle
but Atlas'
shoulders
could not
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Comments12
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this... amazing... it made sense to me yet, provoked thought unlike so many poems i read. you, you are a pure genius