Fervor one can swallow
Many trails weighed before the gasp
Each curve chosen for its contour
Canopies to huddle from the storm
Chin raised towards your ridge
Before sun awakes, time to rise
~
Crinkled eyes see the rise
Ready to drown, instead a swallow
Chaos rationed, reserve for the ridge
Seeing you steals an early gasp
Angry gods portend a storm
Gentle hills belie the contour
~
Thighs fight the rising contour
Easy laughter misjudges the rise
Skin slick, sweat or storm
Licks turn to swallow
Your turn to escape a gasp
Every step an edge, every edge a ridge
~
Burn deep, I still take the ridge
Wild thrash against the contour
We share in ragged, common gasp
White-knuckled chase for the rise
Mouth like ash aches for a swallow
Thunder cracks, hello my storm
~
Cool breaths settle the spent storm
Seen from afar is now our ridge
Eyes meet in a shared swallow
Fingers trace all contour
Sun crests, matches our rise
Only remains the softest gasp
~
Calm hands grasp, simpatico gasp
Petrichor scents after the storm
Rest not, not before the next rise
Tumble down the ridge
Downhill bodies know this contour
All worthwhile end in a swallow
~
Some name is owed this ridge, this contour
A cartography of storm, of rise
Kept only in a gasp, a swallow
P.S. The envoi is dedicated to Count László de Almásy
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