From the top of the gondola, saturday, 11 am

I bring Mary Oliver
to the top of the mountain.
Tourists surround us, babel
and shout, argue and squeal.

I am silent.

My ears strain to capture
sound and sense but I don't
want to understand.

I speak to no one.

Not even Mary.

I only want the wind to translate
its intent directly on my skin.

I wish I were a camera lens.

I long to saturate myself
with all the colors of wildflowers
without the endless pressure of names.

Contrast draws my eye; blue against green.
No.
Light. Dark. Light. Darker
dark, bright patch, and shadow.

I am cold.

I try to categorize, measure
the temperature. Can't I let it go?
Be only cool brushing warm?

Let it go. Let the air steal
the heat of my blood. Let me
become sluggish, a basilisk drowsing
on this moss-furred rock
always waiting for the sun.

I am only dangerous with words in my mouth.

I must move or die here, frozen,
with poems log jammed in my throat.