The slipped knot of now into will be
is such a gentle strand,
the braid undoes itself from yesterday
as easily as a garment's clasp,
as easily as abseiling liana.
Can I hold soft
the line?
To not look back
but keep the mountain's imprint
emboldened in the eye
To unknow
the difference from ascent and descent.
O day, o cloud: what do you know
that hasn't been pressed through my palms?