Tuesday, March 22, 2016

Man from the Mountains

he comes from huddled huts
from mountainsides
center of the world

smokes, drinks, abstains
free form yet closes
onto himself 
like nightshade

rolls into my path
my hardened armadillo
his armament

protects me from 
cutting winds
when i climb with him
fly to him

i have a feeling
of free falling 
no edging, skirting
no margins 
no borders

assured, always
beautiful & blind
he is holding my hand
as we fly