Mountain, Elsewhere

There are days the grass is a bed,

or should be if we let our hair down

if, when on the way to grand central,

hungover-thirsty, booze-bruised, young

desperate-happy, we want sleep-

sex in grass over commuter chatter.

There are days our bodies belong on top

of a mountain where we taste

truer to ourselves. The heart stays broken

because we let it belong in a mouth

instead of a hand. We take anchors

wrapped in silk over holiness.

Which is the loneliest: one night or

nothing, stretches of nothing-want

when the body, in a desert, seeks

another after letting go of the other.

What is better: one night or

an anchor. Self, we are something.

We belong with others, sloppy, almost-

not-young confused crusaders,

crossing bars and each other’s teeth

for a chance to be laid on the mountain.

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