Ski Lifts in Retrospect

We were pre-dawn shades of gray those Sunday mornings, the first

customers giving life to the bagel store, gripping styrofoam cups,

playing out the ski slopes behind our half-closed eyes

on the long, chartered bus rides. I always insisted

on recording good, solid moments:

Ashley slipped, trying to mount the T-lift,

her chin kissing the metal bar. In laughter

we rolled and slapped the white, packed ground.

The lifts, relaxed and urging forward,

gave no indication of leaving something

behind. And what is the difference

between memory and dream now, years

after her death?

If, alternative to chairs there was the T-lift,

maybe there were other letters, too:

We were kids being pulled through the straight-aways

curled up in O-lift’s like tire-swings, or reclining

in the lower-case j’s, whose dots floated

and on a mild day you could hang your hat.

Then the ‘m’ camel rides

through a wintry desert of pine and snow-drift devils.

We were riding the alphabet and writing all over the mountain;

We spelled an unpronounceable utterance—the sound of holding

the dusk and the delicate angle of our faces

just before bursting into laughter. 

A sound we might have clenched in our teeth

as we tried to avoid slipping

off the sides where people don’t ski,

but where snow still drips down

the mountain, spilling towards

some vague gathering bottom.

* * * * * * *

Ode to Biking

All roads connect.

We move forward

by turning circles—

Wheels spin with

each thrust: to see

every beauty

in every light, I’d ride

from dawn til dusk

til out comes

another world

of sense and sound.

The ground passes

underneath: I need

this hum of motion,

I need my pulse

to quicken,

and the wind

to freshen me,

and the day

to kiss my face.