She looks up at the mountain
fleeing into the fog. Constant
self winding down the trail—snake
skin shed on red rock. He takes the tent
and shreds it to pieces, he builds a fire
out of fresh mountain stream,
sweeps the mountain closet, the ceiling
festers with whispers, walls caked in guano.
There are no words for home, there is no
she and he, there is no word for mountain
until suddenly, like the sun burning up the fog,
the word comes blazing into view, difficult and small.
