Mt. Tabor

At some corner I’ll find the way.
In some shadow, under last season’s
decay at the base of the mountain
I’ll hum out the vibrations, a thousand
silent noises shivering to come out;
a thousand bubbles in my throat
trying to be thunder. Under one of these pines
I’ll rearrange the muscles in my face,
contort and gnash tongue and teeth
to push this atmosphere between us
in such a way that you’d understand
the gravel below my collar, this fist
full of road is pumiced,
I may veer up a mulch trail and catch splinters
but I cling to the movement of cement fish nets
open and sprawling;
by always moving on I am in control
by always moving away
it’s easier to find the highway
than arrange letters and curve my lips around
what I don’t know how to say.

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