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 settled─covered the life at my foot─it 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