Go ahead. Climb the Alps,
write your own Mont Blanc,
comb your fingers through her hair.
After everything that will have passed
in those dark spates your faith
can barely think of.
Passion does not give out
so quick as you think
or fear
(the turning toward the car door,
silence that stabs the gut as it spreads,
the goring dull roar of boredom)
no: The sick winters have gone;
her blonde hair braided
will become the wind
winnowing your inner ear, a
bracing snow; a blind leap
into the sheer
steep light of the unknown.
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