Behind the Mountain

Look behind
the mountain--
shrine of string--
there, a white cloud
shining big enough to be
your golden car
tears to parting pieces.

You stare at me staring.

The heat of the sun
in the dream-dragon's eye,
writhe the sky
terrorist mist
like the echos of dawn geese
hold the howls of ambulances
and tangled yard-dogs.

I didn't move.
My hands are just
always open.

To see the wind,
watch the burning gate,
the flames within the tree.
Offer ashes to the corner
for the gift that is received.


by jerry gordon