This is not about what happened,

of which I have no right to speak.

It’s of reading of it in the Green Hall

psychology library, where I

checked out books – and of seeing them

in-between, the theater students in gym shoes and

flip-flops, walking up that mountain in May,

tired from the night before.

It’s about knowing first-hand how weather changes

and how big a mountain is – bigger still

when you need to get off. And not knowing,

but yes, knowing even that, how it is to be a

teacher unraveling after rational plans,

jumping up and down in the snow.

I still see at night the two lying talking

in the cave, that world of ice that keeps us warm.

Sex is an inverse mountain (when it’s sex you shouldn’t have)

Sex is an inverse mountain,

when it’s sex you shouldn’t have –

you coast gleefully, carefree to the top –

a bicycle ride down to the highest,

perfect view –

and Oh what a view! but then

(Oh what a view) you’re not

atop it but under it –

that was not the climb, this is,

a getting out from under and

not dying, one hopes,

from a place you should never have been.