I miss the old mountains of childhood.
Those rocky slopes so high and individual
You could set your way because of where they were.
Solid and stark and lifting to the sky
With their dark rock littered by rags of snow at summer’s end.
In winter, I used to imagine myself
At the mountain’s top on some snowy ridge line
And looking down the side before skeeting down,
Down some sharp couloir, hugged between
The cold arms of the narrowing crevasse before exiting
Out the base and arriving at some parking lot.
It’s weird, I know.
Where am I going with this — this something
Along nostalgic terrain, but magical...
I’d like to think I wish I knew, but I truly don’t.
...
Made up memories are good sometimes.
Deferential toward hope.
Like closing your eyes in favor of those entoptic hallucinations
On the off chance you’ll see something meaningful in the phosphenes.
And maybe, in the lines, you’ll see the street lamp.
Or other structures inviting you to see their color
Before the dream takes you.
I am me 