I’m Not Here

and it was never a mountain.

I never perceived its turning shoulder,
the boil of its soil,
its breath, or its swell.

Flat and painted on,
it was behind a realer life.
It was beneath a scenic drive.

And the streets are not rivers.

We’re not tadpoles or eels
or water beetles,
swimmering and paddling
past reed people on a pale shore.

Dressed
in their Wednesday bible study best,
these are a clump of middle aged couples
gathered at the corner, chatting pleasantly,
as if the evening were sultry.

They are stretching out the good parts
to make them longer.

I brush a billowing end as I pass:
It takes me away
and brings me back

to the scent of a pipe,
rolling acorns in the palm,
the sea in my mouth,
and a mountain that waits
to be touched.

.

.

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