summit meeting

[Allen Bramhall]

the sky's transparency turns to rain, which isn't much trouble. a 
whittled down mountain like Everest (all legend, no action) stands three 
feet above your imagination: not much. so you see, rise and let the 
climbing begin. you see snow as a plaintive need to cower. you see air 
as a fabulous instigation, like you could arrive at party on fire. you 
can, try it. and as you try fire, day fades to night. well that it 
should. it is a winter covering, a respect of earth. we can take such a 
thing as a request to see death. death hits its mark atop Everest. see 
the lunar loss, the vision of chill, the statues made of people. feel 
definite, finally. death is a shaky town in a whirled ocean of feeling. 
people strand themselves then yell for glory. a rumble above is merely 
an avalanche. avalanches just make human call a number one. a few 
moments, say, beneath white blanket will startle you but it is just a 
mountain, just death, just a blue sky sometimes burnt into the world 
above. or rain, as this day knows. we may sleep later or run around a 
large rock. we may incline towards love because it is there. the sky's 
transparency is as grey as dictates. the rain feels fine and finely 
tuned. morning becomes eccentric.