we are a stemmed chalice,
sacred cups,
our rite of passage.

i have been you;
have come for you
like it has moved mountains.

and they march
toward me, glacier, fir-
bearing shoulders
of rock, of solitude
foundation and
imposability.

oh mountain,

mountain, could mohammed
wish you had waited
and

not have it blasphemy?

not have you hovering
at his door.