Climb up with me.
Let’s lay against damp shingles
On the rooftops of our most possible dreams.
We’ll stare at the anvils in the sky,
These great thunderheads,
The unreachable ones,
Radiant with their own suns.
Skis, boots, poles, helmet. Check.
Sometimes, I write poems. Not with any regularity. But every once in a while, I write poems.
They are written over the span of years, words added and subtracted like glaciers forming and calving. Sometimes, I go looking for their half-developed stanzas, sifting through documents and post-it notes. Other times, like tonight, I find one purely by accident while on the hunt for some other distant .doc.
My best guess is that this poem was started in 2010 or 2011. I finished it last night.
We sprinted up mountains with hands pressed together like hips or
lips whistling for water. We went down running, rushing, every
step toe-stubbing, gasping for air.
I really do forget the
frantic laugh of his kiss at the top and the weight
of that word in my mouth as it stumbled from
throat to tongue to teeth to out.
of the hands held fast one–two? I do
recall the press & final release.
That I’ll keep. I’ll take too
the feeling, madcap &
reeling, of love as
it’s flying – Oh!
as it’s falling