Alpine Wedding

All dark morning long the clouds are rising slowly up beneath us, and we are fast asleep. The mountains unmove intensely. And so do we. Meadows look down. A city there looks up and stirs a little. Adrift the rolling tiled roofs of buildings, the deadly trains of grinding sand and morning— a spy unfolds his paper, the coffee’s served. A bride and groom stand shivering on a tarmac in the mist, and they are happy. Each one and all of us entangled, the room is moist with us, the house unfinished, windowless, and we are fast asleep. The brother of the groom can’t get close enough. He leans against the brightest ridge and ladder, the sucking sound of memory as heaven picks up speed and hurtles through his burning skin its frozen blankets to the sun.