I never taken time
to see a mountain
and I’ve had the chance
a few times in the past.
Ignorant of great heights,
I picture what it looks like
past the edges.
Purple is the color
I most associate with mountains,
even though that isn’t what they are.
All of my instincts on this subject
are wrong, like seeing a swarm
of bats fly in the daytime.
They circle me and sink
their fangs into my arms
then carry me off, in the grips
of their vampiric jaws,
until I am miles away.
We are high enough that I can
walk on the clouds, and it is then
that I can see where they are taking me.
Sticking out of the fog,
like a tear in the sky,
is the peak of some mountain
so old we forgot how to find it.
Teleporting Typewriter 