no one wants to read poetry
about sleeping during a long drive
through winding mountain roads
waking up to dawn breaking
over snowcapped mountains
far across arid lands
making coffee on a dusty
picnic table to warm
freezing fingers
gravelly roads that lead
to piles of volcanic rocks
spit up from long ago
we grated our fingertips
for hours until exhaustion
and hunger forced us out
and we did that over and over
again for not enough days
and i thought of poetry
but i did not write it down
because i was busy tending fires
and sipping whiskey
and i don’t know how to
write poetry about why
it feels so good to climb
…
even when there is work to
be done and forms to fill
and bills to pay
even when i will return to
the world where i must change
out of my dust-caked clothes
even when the news
spills over with
overwhelming tragedy
for a few days
i let there be nothing but climbing
and it felt right.
narinda heng 