The Heights

I make away on teetering shelves
of wind-worn stone to mark a new
horizon all my own, saltpetering
inward to the marrow of this
globe's indecent bones, in
hopes of carving a new home.

Without a wing to leap aloft
or fur so soft to move a hand
toward my head, my back: I stand
with arms outstretched and
hugging still the wildest reach
of mountain-sill, untanned.

The marbled heights grow paler
here, and in I peer to canyons
with springs so boundlessly
clear that harbingers of sons,
of suns mirror calls for any
soul to hear, so soundlessly.

A shrieking star could blind me:
paralyzed for white-washed ghosts
to find me at the hollows of a
coast dissolved by air-borne
salts and mist suspending
ethers kissed and motion-mulled.

No fortress here abiding any
clicks or booms of tidings
from those dead-set to reduce
my mighty peaks to simple roosts
upon the world's worn crown
where giant minds make proof.

You alone will notice how
the worn creases on the brow
of Odin's veil can settle now
that we have found another time:
entreating those the sages hail
as devildoms from Muspelheim.