Westward Window

by Renwick Berchild

Sierra, my home. Bedroom the sky. Holyholy zoom, the eagles,
directing my eyes I am a habitué, dawdling gazer with
a wide brimmed hat, flounder(er) with my words I trip over
the too large robe of my praises.

Peekers of the dawn, high bastions out my window take
my reaching hands, teach them not to shake.
As Saint Anthony was swarmed by demons, so temptation comes
and gathers me in mothering arms
so tender I fall to sleep.

I ask the mountain how many mountains it climbed, as though
the sea rose from the sea. How many gods did gods slay
to be manifested from out the human stones.

Wander (I should wander) for I have feet. To stand on the shoulders
of the giants I first must climb their knees.

Fuschia claps the dusk, downward roar, nightfall enshrouds
the peaks in the solemn indigo; friendship, and struggle is all time
will allow, I must face the sinking sun head on,

for my window faces west.

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