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Singing Agathe
White is my cypher
and a ghost in my hair
unfit to pierce through the mysteries
of the mountains I found when I climbed to the top of the world

I came from a linear place
full of surface touches
and abstract certainties
I sought the pinnacle of this world of mine
for surely our geometry has a peak
only to realize
I had not escaped
the cave
I had merely
floated along
to a high hill
on a grass-waved
red plateau
and there are bigger things than me and mine

The mountains rise with their alien geometry
I am unprepared for the dismissal their presence implies
Tectonic groans as they scrap against a higher sky than ours
I do not have the language
White is my cypher
and a ghost in my hair
My clumsy tongue bruises them with its one-sided perception
They must think it strange that their feet are so stung
Perhaps they make Titan war against each other
Or exchange philosophies of constellations and great attractors
Perhaps they do not speak to one another at all
Each sealed in their own mighty contemplations of self

I do not know

White is my cypher
and a ghost in my hair

And each fractured word
is like a single day lily
gathered at dawn
trying to make a bouquet
but yesterday's lily
is already faded
as I sit atop the highest hill
of the lowest lands
listening to the grumble of giants

Weary and I sleep
Cold and I shiver
Hungry and I starve
Listen and I hope
that my cypher will blush
and my hair become unbound
and I will awake as a mountain
casting away the plains
But now ghost is my cypher
and there is white in my hair