Saturday, December 22, 2018

Poetry: Grace Peak

Grace Peak

Down where fingers
hold a wind
scourged turbulence,

lurid and buried
in the fractures,

your mountain grace
blisters like iron smelted,

and the mosaic of your
eyes light all over.

Wrapped in cold teardrops,
below the grit of exiled scents,

at your peak I feel astronomical,

like Asimov’s balloons rising
through a diaphanous fog.

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