Everywhere invites this morning. You, with your braids—
Jutting from your helmet like the uninvited mouse— raise a palm
against today’s sun. There was no snow last night, no small gift
for the roof’s incline. Today you will be alone on this dry mountain,

humming, speaking poetry to yourself as you ascend. Await the descent,
lighter than the accidental pine needles wedged in the folds of your jacket. You
will try to disassemble your body into pieces, legs carving circles around you. But
as nothing taught is ever fully learned, you will envy others, better disassembled. And

as blood has never circled through you as it should, your fingertips will begin
to curl into themselves in search of a false warmth. Before perspective began
to lead you, reality, rationality, you would dread this. Before you saw beads and
bras gracefully flug at branches from the chairlift, you felt small. Counted the hours.

Before you kept orange gum in pockets, leaping from finger to finger. Air,
thinner than weekdays. The scent of cold and taste of breath, today you
will be alone on this dry mountain, content. Before inviting these mornings, you,
with your braids, were uninvited. Watch a mountain carve circles around you.