Dusk on Hunger Mountain

sometimes this proximity is enough
mysterious and honeyed like
the lance of summer’s last sunbeam within
the weathered barnyard

and I could call you by your hundred names
in hopes that you’d be mine again
but I will never own you — so at
dusk on Hunger Mountain I

let the mountain speak my longing, I
feel for your warmth in the grass,

in the dry roots and the woodsmoke and
I bless the night a thousand times
for all she hides from view