There is a way up mountains, taught to me by you,
by which you climb up them, glowing at dusk,
roseate at sunset, huge momentous ethereal mountains
simultaneously rising and hovering, mountains made
of stony rock, solid as frozen mist, frozen meat, mountains –
of salamis stretched and stacked into a triangle,
a triangle in the abstract, like a mountain:
substantial and pious, airy and tumbling, immense and painterly,
on which the more bored angels land and burn their feet, the mountain
is so cold. You are beautiful; I trust your ideas,
plus the map you have created out of a fantasy of mountains
is irreplaceable, colorful and hazy, like a vivid piece of cherry pie.
How quickly we lose our way; frosts billow around the tips of mountains
Extravagantly, and the mountain roars and the lakes divide
And the cherry pie does not move, Lo, nor even budge an inch.