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Atop a peak made bald by ice-blast scour,
Enfolded in mad zephyrs' coats of rime,
before the sunlight's feeble last half-hour,
I contemplate the taking back of time:
a breath of words that mist an airy mark;
a countenance distilled into a stream;
a self-made arrow's suicidal arc
that pierces the reflection of a dream:
of rolling thunder running up the shore;
of sand escaping through a looking glass;
of port not drunk behind a slamming door;
but with a wishful toast, "These times will pass",
and thus unfold a crumpled, cooling self
that sought to ossify upon a shelf.
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