mountain

without peaks
keep going

power plant plumes

dead broomsedge hissing
in the ridgetop wind

the “cosmic” flavor of the cloud
from her vape

all the trees graffitied
with fresh snow

even the full moon isn’t
where I left it

I dreamed myself adrift in a forest of the dead.

a life sentence for its strip of land. But sometimes it glows, livid as a scar.

its only other crop
besides lichen

snow squall
the dog stops tugging
on the leash

transported to the mountaintop food for eagles

staring as vacantly as I can at your one-way glass

between this ridge and the next still brown, still blue