You can’t mount a mountain
like you can a
volcano,
each step up one
risks
a perilous fall,
up the other scalding
fingers,
blistering where they grip,
even though the landscape
is much softer,
yielding as I press myself
against it.
This is where mountain goats
go to rut;
I am a goat in
sheep’s clothing,
wishing I was a wolf,
aching to feel the
vibrations
beneath me or as I climb,
stirred up in part by where I am
what I touch,
a firm grip,
a tender grip,
taking me higher
and deeper
with each risky step
unaware of where I am,
on what (or whom) I have mounted,
mountain or volcano
until the fumes appear
the heat to loosen my grip,
I do not know which
until I feel the
whole thing
begin to erupt
by which time
it’s too late to stop.
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