THE MOVEMENT OF MOUNTAINS

I.
It is a wonder to me,
the brute precision in the chambers of an engine,
and it is a wonder to me
that they churn with such strength.

I know the feel of distances—I breathe
the dust of the Cascades, and the greenery,
and think of the hills of home, and I know them
to be the same;

The hairy bulk of the tor—
Thick mobs of trees, straight-backed, unruled.
My eyes cannot pierce
the voluminous shadows beneath.


II.
I creep along the hairy stomach of the earth
and marvel at its deep flesh.
I touch the immaculate purple,
the velvet-knuckled foxglove.

And on the westerlies gloat
black-hulled men o’ war, their umbrous knolls
rammed full of thunder.


III.
And if the earth by rubbing its fecund fleshes together
heaves up such crags,
what do my fingers do to you?