Topography

— Tom Rimel

Each spring he falls from High Sierra,
Struck mute and tiny, humbly ripe,
A hood of feathers, a cloud filled coat,
A pink pearl necklace of blistering bites.

Flung across the dome and back beneath
The earth, a crescent moon chin out, daring
Gauntlet through the milky swipes of stars.

I park stalled at the trailing edge of men,
Spooned in snug, weighed calorie to ounce,
On ticking watch, my collar starched,
A loving meal of mummy in a freeze dried pouch.

I wait with socks for bogs unspoken,
Socks for streams of depths untried,
Socks to cover socks on frigid nights,
Regret on regret…

                                      Unscroll his map, divine
Relief between the billows, the pass and vista
Snared inside each hillside’s loops of thread.

His compass points, I spin surprise.
Now dark, the embers ash to touch,
His flint still scrapes and sparks my eyes.

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