unspun

how long can be spent
on the ridges between
the ever valleyed mountains
not wanting, to forget
the feelings below and felt
above the place you are

it's true, all longing spent
there now seems better
than the consummate plunge
or the coldly definitive climb
as you stand waiting

for the wind to point
its desire and move, you're
(there are ants far below
and gnats swirling above
and you must let them be)

recalling human whirls now
knowing how fast you moved
around them as they stood
statuesque and still raising
a hand of invitation