Slipping up the 395
Upon the belly of clouds
We arrive in the dry solace
Of Whitney's shadow
Whose spirit like existence
is impeded only by her
Smoky wreath of clouds
Fingers rock-ripped, full of life
You levitate above me
Into the crags of the evening
while below us
Dust and water race up
Owen's Valley into my heart
In the night-
licked with wind
You – this puzzle
Collected beside me in a bag of sleep
Burned hot holes in the tent
of my contentness
Faces dusty with the grains of mountains
In the mornings we would walk
In a wash of clouds and stars
And in the still the sun
Would dump forth its noise
Into the world
The sinew strings of
My being vibrating out
Into the rabbit brush and sage
Collecting dustily on your
Toes and in your eyes
The Alabama Hills cold and glowing,
Piling up like charcoal chunked skeletons
Corralled in the fire pit
Of the Eastern Sierra
Their embers whipped by the westwardly wind
Illuminate a world and a woman
I could forever wander
Yet never piece together.
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