Johnson peak de-buttressed
metavolcanic rocks—
a locomotive of intention
down over the Hope-Princeton.
K dreams of a night swim:
the e-string pluck and grace
windmilling synchronicity—
palms cupping the dark chestward.
You survive, she says,
Bright mornings,
when the blue is magic that doesn’t fool,
growing immense with life,
swollen river with no banks, no limit,
flows forever,
and stays - eternally.
Baying on the doorstep
like a pack at close quarters,
they entered his dreams.
He spat back and growled
a low bush snarl,
as they cornered him,
then mauled the scruff
of his cowering neck,
delicate as antique porcelain,