Look Out (a very rough, rough poem taking a cue from Josh Beckman)

From the way it looks, the view from the mountain

is just as clearly showing me smog

as the trees directly below my foot.

I remember when I was climbing Torres del Paine
I didn't understand

that not all roads that lead to Rome involve trodden-upon footpaths.

Kneeling on gravel, I prayed each time I grabbed a small tree

it'd hold. The phones almost entirely dead,

we communicated through the one computer

at the hostel, where coffee was strong, and delicious.

I suspect upon the moment that clouds fitted

themselves upon those mountains that rain

poured and pounded like the wind and gave

beauty to those towers. I think I read that.

Do you read? Do you take in air in quick sips?

I think that kind of thing is interesting, like how it howls

in zigzags like a terribly disoriented fox

up steep hills and that birch tree peeling like peanut

butter in a cold, cold kitchen.