Flatirons

I From the false summit, coxcomb-cum-arête, cool thermals underscore our frailties, past edges where our wingless feet are set and the long look down dilutes the evergreens. As sandstone ends, the world of ghosts begins— they sometimes rise up still in dreams, my love. With one hand firm, I step onto the skin of the abyss, embracing what’s above and severing spent ties to the scree below. The filtered light turns lichen eerie green, ushering in a world we hardly know, at least not one we’re sure we’ve ever seen just so, each climber brand new in his skin, no longer mired in waiting to begin. ii