On a day
of sudden gusts, papers flattened against the street's face blow
up again, a funnel of words whirling, I see myself in outline only, with no interior details.The lines
are simple, single 'curves' and have been as
fine as any
that came later. There was a grace from the start. This is the mystery
incised very deeply
to move ahead.
Walking between people
the mountain disappears in the same perspective
as relentless developers of buildings everywhere planned
going up. Even with the heart of icebergs melting, I am
reluctant to leave the river's shallow bed.
rises in the distance, an early snowfall melting on its shoulders,
climbers on its mottled slopes? I can't see with such resolution.
Behind me children
scream, splashing in the
circle of a fountain. Or is
it Sasquatch, tired , with
winter still far ahead?