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+Abraham, Abraham, you are old and cannot hear
+my small voice under the creaking of your grief.
+Your eyes are dim and connot see the ram
+as it creates itself from the bush, fashioning
+its horns from brambles, its wool from leaves,
+its hooves from the rock of the mountain.
+
+Your hand is shaky, but it is sure to its goal.
+The knife is blunt but not blunt enough.
+
+I am here to stay your hand, to blunt
+the knife, to bring the ram out from itself
+so that it can realize its purpose
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+So it's the fucking moon.  Big deal.  As if
+you haven't seen it before, tacked to the sky
+like a piece of rotten meat, or a maudlin
+
+love letter (the _i_'s dotted neatly with hearts)
+on the sky's door like the ninety-eight theses.
+
+Don't stare at it like it means anything.
+Don't give it the chance to collect meaning
+from your outstretched hand, like an old pigeon.
+
+Don't dare ascribe it a will, or call it fickle,
+or think it has any say in your affairs.
+
+It's separated from you by three hundred and eighty
+thousand miles of empty space,
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+_How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
+ but frightening that it does not quite._
+_A word is elegy to what it signifies._
+
+The world is somewhat large and unwieldy.
+This is something I think we can all agree on.
+And although we may be unwieldy, knocking around semi-anonymously between our work and our families, between eating and sleeping, between the bigness that surrounds us on both sides like a tall hedge wall, we are by no means large.
+This is something else we can agree on, if we're honest with ourselves.
+
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+I didn't see it for days, or even months.
+I lost track after a while how long it was.
+Then one night, there it was, reclining
+on the mountains as if they were a couch.
+_I missed you_, I said, but it didn't hear
+or it pretended not to, I don't know which.
+I thought it was looking right at me, but
+it could've been staring over my shoulder
+at something glinting.  I guess I have to try
+harder, try something different.  I'm going
+to sing to it, bring it flowers every night,
+something white to brighten up my hands.
+
+Years later, when I've won it back, when
+it shows itself to me without asking, I'll
+
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+| He didn't have any polish so he spit-shined the whole thing
+| until it gleamed like a [tomato on the vine][] that was begging
+| to be picked and thrown on some caprese.  Death loved caprese.
+
+| He stood up to put the horn to his lips, trying to imagine
+| it was a woman he loved.  He blushed as he realized how bad
+| [the metaphor was][].  He practiced anyway for six hours a day
+| in front of the mirror---what else to do with all the time?
+
+| Death looked at [himself in the mirror][] as he played, the trumpet
+| suspended in midair.  _Damn vampire rules_, he thought.
+| He was always worried he might have [missed a spot][] while shaving
+| but he'd never know unless a stranger---he had no friends---
+| was kind enough.  Not that he goes out anyway or meets people.
+
+| He started waking up late, staying in bed later.
+| He started thinking he was depressed.  He never did eat
+| that caprese, and it started getting soggy, green spots
+| spreading on the mozzarella like bedsores.  The sun
+| filtered through the [kitchen blinds like smoke][]. He had
+| to get out of the house.  He decided to go to the arcade.
+
+| When he got there, it was empty except for a boy
+| [with dead eyes][].  So far so good, Death thought.
+| He was playing a first-person shooter, something violent.
+| Death walked past him and watched out of the corner
+| of his eye.  The kid was good.  Death decided
+| to congratulate him.  He had his trumpet in his hand.
+
+[himself in the mirror]: moongone.html
+[with dead eyes]: big-dipper.html
+[tomato on the vine]: wallpaper.html
+[the metaphor was]: leaf.html
+[missed a spot]: january.html
+[kitchen blinds like smoke]: what-we-are-made-of.html
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+I am a great pillar of white smoke.
+I am Lot's nameless wife turned to salt.
+
+I am the wound on Christ's back as he moans
+with the pounding of a hammer on his wrist.
+
+I am the nail that holds his house together,
+the long nail in his right wrist that points
+
+toward heaven.  I am that nail and I am
+the builder of the house, a strong house
+
+with a sound foundation.  I am not the only
+one who lives here.  I am the god of
+
+a race of dust mites who build monuments
+in my honor every day in the small dark
+
+corners of my house.  I destroy each one
+before I sleep each night.  Every morning
+
+there are still more.  I am unaware where
+all of them are.  There are too many.
+
+I am a god without a name in an empty house.
+I am an open wound festering in the white sun.
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+I am a great pillar of white smoke.
+I am Lot's nameless wife encased in salt.
+
+I am the wound on Christ's wrist groaning
+under the repeated weight of a hammer.
+
+I am the nail in the wound that points
+toward heaven.  I am the nail that holds
+
+his kingdom together around my cold
+thin body.
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+The moon is gone and in its place a mirror.
+Looking at the night sky, the viewer sees only his own face as viewed from far away, surrounded by a vague landscape of mountains, the plain he's standing on, a river.
+He sees he is alone in the wilderness.
+He wonders in being alone.
+
+But behind him, the viewer sees a pursuer.
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+---
+title: The mountain
+genre: verse
+
+id: mountain
+toc: "The mountain"
+
+project:
+    title: Elegies for alternate selves
+    class: elegies
+    order: 19
+    prev:
+    - title: The moon is gone and in its place a mirror
+      link: moongone
+    next:
+    - title: Serengeti
+      link: serengeti
+...
+
+The other side of the mountain is
+not the same mountain.  This side
+is stickysweet full of phone calls
+where not much was said but promises
+
+to call some other time or visit.
+The other side of the mountain is
+a bell, ringing in the church to mark
+the day we couldn't visit anymore.
+
+The other side of the mountain is
+not a mountain.  At the bottom a river
+courses past a ferry in the dark.