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.
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.