Dazzling, trembling with such exactitude,
Clench, clutch, clasp, spellbindingly hugging
With visible affection,
Each of these mountains was precipitously made
With flawless fibula.

How high, how low must each rise
To be lit by the burning sun?
How thick, how thin must these particular fluorescent
Pigments coat nature’s exquisite filament?
How long, how quick must each terrestrial vertebrate
Freeze in space before the deadline of
A confectioner’s handiwork?

pink red orange yellow green mountain
orange yellow green blue pink red mountain
They anchor the central path,
Welcoming stoned shepherds who have joined
Maenads and satyrs in their mystic dance.

Feverish grip flutters heavenward.
white blue black mountain
white silver black mountain
Sing their choruses in praise of
This rack of drunk mountaineers.

Cloud puffs drift lazily above,
Bright wind with clean, crisp air,
I see the sun at 4 pm in equilibrium.
Remember just now
What Baudelaire once wrote,
“The Poet is like the prince of the clouds,
Haunting the tempest and laughing at the archer;
Exiled on earth amongst the shouting people,
His giant’s wings hinder him from walking.”

Walking around, above, below,
In between these erected mountains,
My blissful melancholy swayed by the setting sun.