RUNNING TO THE CLOUDS

When you come to,
it’s dark but clear
like a Herman Miller Aeron Chair,
True Black

Subsurface heat is meets
the cold
refreshing air

And you’re like a baby,
disoriented
cranky,
and naked

You feel a vibration
that’s in that space
behind your surgically removed
wisdom teeth

Without thinking about it
too much
you’re sitting up
on top of your sheet-covered rock

Feet feel
hard on the ground

Your greeted by
the animal who slept there
she jumps into your
not-ready lap

Look into her eyes,
they match
the fog that’s outside,
and your mood

Walk down to the water
where land ends and relief begins
this is the clearest view
of the top

Without knowing it right off
and perhaps too quickly
—you rushed to ready—
you start running
to the clouds

There’s a drizzle
rain, that’s not really falling,
just there in the air
stopped in time
and in space,
captured in trees
you see
as you ascent

You go for miles
up,
it isn’t easy

When you get there
you find a stack
of firewood—
the murderous remains of the lumberjack

Your pores open and feel new entry
As you descent,
to where you started

Home, where you’re heated
by the warmth of the stove,
which runs on natural gas

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