…and on the 8th day the tired Americans realized what delight would come from a day of hiking and day-drinking beneath the watchful eye of the Matterhorn. “His gaze pierces cloud, shadow, earth and flesh.”
After climbing “at least as high as the clouds,”
I may have no words left.
No Goldmund wandering,
curious guilt blooming seeds in the plague,
wiping tears from the invisible heart of untouched sex
as conversations in strange languages interrupt my frozen dreams.
You fell for me and I hope you know that lie is an answer to questions I could never ask:
When will my bones be licked clean
or ignored long enough to rest in deadly heat
by the side of another fragile pass like a house on stilts,
set down to erode by a waterfall of unspeakable, unproductive beauty?
Hope is only counting backward
to some deranged series of never-ending switchbacks,
rising while I carry everyone I’ve ever known
and become the ice and fog;
the only destination.
At least we’re on the same page.
I could scream and sing.
I could live inside a doorway kiss
remembering and spinning on these peaks,
or sleep forever as the wind and sun illuminate a fault line.
Who built these cliffs was ringing bells I can’t forget before I was born,
in the shade revoked until forever.
And the Zermatt tourist center blares “Creeping Death” over its stereo system. Something special about this place…