The first night we met, I climbed a tree

naked. Blunted the barb off a hook

and pushed it through my ear

like an apple. The horses raised their heads to the wind,

       like it was nothing. Far out mountains

            and calderas of the moon. I see you. Dark ships

 

destined for things the dead cannot imagine. Junky spaceships

setting down hard in the gutter with a great sucking sound, the trees

bowing sideways. Leaves and needles flying. Mountains

of laundry swept up into the air, hooking

       wildly in little eddies against houses and sheds. Foul-smelling wind.

            The exhaust of hoarding guilt ringing in my ear.

 

Half deaf, licked young by roman candle, I get real close to hear.

My physical response to music and conversation. Ships

jokeying for position. The soft conversation of wind

overhead in the trees,

       the moon a silver hook

            over Lucky Dog Mountain.

 

Remember? Sleeping in the trailer under a mountain

of ratty blankets. Your body a ship. Your ears

pink from the cold. The hooks

and rods, pointless in the blizzard. We are Shipwrecked.

       Sad little pines peaking up through the snow. Smell of tea tree

            and kerosene on the wind.

 

Single track above the treeline. Pink-faced. Switchbacks wind

endlessly. The glacier receding into the soft parts of the mountain.

A single pervasive green up until the last tree.

Fresh isolation. Fear.

       The red sun bobbing like a warship,

           under a net of morning stars that gleam like hooks.

 

I can turn anything into something it’s not. The uncontrollable hand hooks

meaning from image. Image from sound. In the eaves, wind.

Below me, nothing but air. Evening ships

       a metaphor I steal to fatten myself. The bridge of details rearing

            up like a colt in a field of lighting-black trees.

 

The hook in my heart bleeding while I follow its line to the top of the mountain.

Hot wind in my ear.

Harbor lights. Ships made entirely out of extinct species of trees.