Avalanche at Sundance
(The Mountain Talks Back)



In chalky white

glissades, a bride descends

the staircase of my northern face,

trailing a train of powdered alabaster plume,

ripping sprucey hairs and gilded aspen from my chest,

roaring with lust as she rubs my base and accepts in return

my own expressions of sediment stone inclined to direct and produce.

Once she has settledcovered the life at my footit is her nature to exhale.


So keep your limp pink moguls

sitting in front of sparkly-beaded

vertical screens palming their

cellular phones at festivals of film

and out of my transverse face.


Even a mountain needs space to breathe.


 Richard Hacken