Everest

Spinning,

like a top atop

an Everest of regrets,

where the rapids won’t beget

undue relief. The slowest

of self-cursings

and fingertips

split curling ‘round a barrel—

boarded up against

One grief—a loss

so masterful.

So

disaster-full, this

singular shindig set against

the salmon and the stream.

Cursed

by fits—yet fit to dream

of you, the sea

so deep, the love

for me,

the spider in the well.

I'm fit

to rip you

from anxious sleep,

to make you King

of jagged peaks,

and drag you down to Hell.