It takes three hours
of nocturnal womb
bobbing at eleven
thousand feet and half
a bottle of wine to
know everything, to
love even more, to
be flat certain the
world will jump at
your touch

When gloating moon
scrapes arête, you’re
ready to stride forth,
a colossus, but learn
that hanging clothes
near capricious steam
was not divinely wise

The stars are well-

loved, but jeering ice,
so the Titan faces a
cruel choice: sprint
naked half a mile or
first step herkily
into glacial rags

Empirical evidence
suggests there is no
right choice, only blue
choice: the knower and
lover a spectral blur,
darting, dripping,
yipping, thinking
only of tent

Best!

Kevin McCarthy http://www.mtndogwhisperer.com/