I study time by light,
the ridge, rain-dark and snow-
etched, a book of days
behind glass. Climbing the mountain
is good for a few hours,
but voices never stay
on the ridge, they deride
my footsteps, that I have
footsteps, that my skin slices
open at the least touch
of rough, that I am big
and small, prone to breaking.
My center of gravity
is in my gut, not in my chest.
I cannot read the mountain,
and hear rustling leaves
too late. Whatever was there
is gone. God, again.
