****
one's
Self.

Information is weight that holds
down and holds back like a jungle
like so many vines and chutes
mud and rain that keeps
you struggling and straining
towards that place on a map
the high point that once atop
promises an unambiguous view,
the place that looks so close
there's no need to carry a pack
but nine hours later, hacking
through underbrush, pulling
at leeches and swatting mosquitos
finds you crippled by heat
cursing the map that so
grossly misrepresented the
relationship between yourself
and the place you wished to reach,
the map that never mentions, never,
that should you ever achieve
that keystone ridge, that high and
illuminating view, you will look out
to see the impeding silhouette of the
next ridgeline blocking your way.

The longer the view
the further you look past
what it was you were
hoping to see.

Dirt shows through where
there should be snow
mercury is taking the
wind's temperature
as it coughs dust
the firs' grain
pops and splits
like chapped lips
the smell of fire
precedes smoke

Comfort's embrace is
false and choking.
The masses gag in
their sleep, subdued
by its silken constraints.

I must learn
to travel lighter.

Steps from Nowhere
leading to Nothing
cannot be retraced.