I did nothing until I was ready—
my terra firma snagged in sky.
Birds arguing over road signs.
What does it look like from here?
Damp-leaved early December slick
in the lap of eternal freethinking.
The moment those firths let go
their river hands, is the moment
I turn translucent beneath the giant
copper beech. You, mountain
up which I swam loam-faithed
and bubbling, listen: you made me
breath by breath, you showed me
the orchid’s lip for crying out loud,
you laid out your vertigo glamour
and invited me to kneel at your skirt
and offered a ladder to the catwalk
of your lashes, winter I could not see
to see threatening as a threshold.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 1.
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