At The Peak


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I hear there’s a spring
filled with mountain blood.

And when you drink from it
you cough and hack and wheeze up
glops of tar and soot
that been stuck
in the crevices of the cartilage
between your joints for years.

I hear once you done barkin up
all the bits that been weighing on you
you want another drink.

I hear that second drink
fills up all them freshly vacant nooks
with the thoughts of a mountain.

I hear you get real alpine thoughts
that make you wanna trust
the stones under your soles.

I hear you know why the ground
can’t stop twirling and why the granite
ain’t rose up against us flesh.

I hear that once you done
havin your fill of mountain blood
you wanna climb down off the peak.

And once you off the peak,
you start growin right quick and hard
and your legs meld with the deep
of the earth and your arms go out
like they’re feathered
and you cocoon in stone.

I hear once you sipped from the spring
you earned the right to be a mountain.
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