It’s like that great Canon that moves me—
The way Scripture should move.
But, rather, it’s that death of missing you
And not those sacred wounds
That draw my eyes on up to the hills.
I wonder, do you rest your large, still eyes
On hills as I now do?
Or do you rest your arms, strong and warm and burnt
From the heat of many warm, red, carefree afternoons,
Upon the heavy mountains?
Has distance made you the Colossus
My thoughts create?
Has it made you a god-like apparition
Whose very words can make the mountains crumble and melt?
Or are you the psalm that echoes
In the valleys of such great mountains
To which I lift my large, still eyes?

6 February 2008

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