mt baldy sneaks out of the sky at dawn
snow then shocking, garish for
minutes at a time depending upon
angles and particles in the still and
heavy air.
i hear mr sands is missing up there
somewhere and i don’t know him but
i worry about his final moments, worry
that i can hear his voice calling death
songs across this valley and i’m not
heeding an obvious theory of discovery.
mr sands is not my
responsibility, not mine.
i’m not from here and know
nothing of this mountain’s folded
language its bent skirt’s sharp
tongue, so nothing feels as obvious
as that dawn song implies
it might be.
i can’t help mr sands and now
the mountain is not as
beautiful.
orphan poems 