A gray hollow, the color of fog hanging
over the tundra of the mountain,
wrests from my body a loneliness
through and through.
The fast moving clouds,
tributaries of blue leaking out—
January thaw, the wet rain and nothing to speak of,
dirty snow and the pigeons marching, marching.
There again the unlit wicks of trees scaling the sky—
the vision overpowers, like the scent of
cinnamon, lavender, leather
catches and keeps,
a window through the ashen skies—
I too want to stand nude, yet burning,
waiting for rapture.