The mountain that roared at midnight,
It never heard us.
The mountain that roared, covered up by the oven falling,
smothered by the hard mess of Norway,
and plane tickets, and lonely hearts.
You roared. And I fell asleep knowing
too much
or just enough
to get the sense that the mountains aren't high enough here.

Folly from all, this
was such a sweet summer for lovers,
if only it were so sweet for us.
But the mountain roared.
And this time I couldn't bang the pans loud enough
or shake the slam the door hard enough
or put you into sweat gleaned sleep.
This time you listened.

And from the distance I saw our graves.

All the ***** in Scotland,
the smoke in Netherlands,
the gin and dance of Denmark,
the glacier water in Ålesund,
or the high wire act of our travels,
all that couldn't stop the mountain.

It roared and you listened,
putting me valleys below,
seeking new tops
for just a glimpse of how to drown it out again.