Cold and dawn-dark at 8:30. The ridge disappears into cloud, allowing me to imagine real mountains—a fastness far from anything but rain.
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Cold and dawn-dark at 8:30. The ridge disappears into cloud, allowing me to imagine real mountains—a fastness far from anything but rain.
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Mt Hood, DST
Cold and dawn-dark
(they’ve been messing with the clock again
who knows what time it is?)
The ridge disappears into cloud,
cloud into mountain, mountain into sky:
here at the raw crude
edge of the world
we need no pretending.
A fastness? No, a slowness.
Turn the wheel and the sunline,
taut and glimmering,
God’s garotte,
pivots on Hood’s shoulder
as slow as an impalement stake,
and the mountain,
a scabied ragged hungry eagle,
turns its tufted head.
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Such a fierce poem. The garrote gives me shivers.
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Landscape, with Cave and Lovers
And once, in a book we read together, we paused:
not when the nurse reads to him or his ghost from a book
on permanent things in a room in a ruined villa, not
when his plane goes down in flames in the middle
of the desert— Not even when, finally, he carries
the woman in his arms and leaves her on a smooth
rock ledge in a cave, whispering he will go for help
and return very soon, my darling— but there after she
has already died, in the middle of the cold and dark,
at the part where in his grief he is moved to enter
her once more— does he not?— and there is only this
place left in the world to which he’s been sentenced,
this fastness far from anything but rain
and the last words she spoke, drifting into
the perfect darkness like smoke or ink—
~ Luisa A. Igloria
03 23 2011
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This is gorgeous.
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