the mountains stand with thickness they stand out behind my house i hear them thinking out there thinking just summer or winter they think on them flowers and rivers and i think them purest magic with whom i collude with on hoary frosted eves i plunk through the neat lips of trees about the mountains hard mouth i trundle and mutter with the naked boughs of them those straight moon piercing oafs they cut her pretty waxing ***** into finite lovely ribbons and i fold them 1x1 into my soul, i gather up the loose strength of the moon's hair into my palm and sticking it in my pocket i heft my sturdy frame back to where i left my car sleeping