By: Viator

Deep Challenge

The steep terrain was the attraction to me
at five or six when on a fishing trip to the near north
and the river whose bank here, from the quiet
road, dropped with such an angle under the trees
and tough vines by whose tenacious magic I imagined

ascending if the descent to the exposed shore
lost its luster—which was unlikely—since gravity
held such a pull on ankles anxious to challenge
the so-sloping ground unknown at home,
such a novelty in the strength drawing down

to the slack current and its lace of cobbles
then only a depth of splashing inches to its beads—
the islands, flat and fish bone-festooned—
bleaching in the sun now high and triumphant
after the declivity since conquered that would,

however, remain for the struggle back up
and the feeling of the earth’s deep hand clamping
on legs so keen and happy to resist that invisible
grip that must rise up only from this naturally muscled
and enchanted spot in the world otherwise plain.

Former Integrity

Once there was a limit to heat’s ingress,
a footstep non grata beyond the politeness

of the line Natura had arbitrated before we
were young, a land, if only in the mind’s

ranging eye, to imagine cool retreat
from the tumult of the temperatures

rising as must go the tempers of our swarms
as we sweat in slick and sticky proximity

only pumping up the degrees and the attendant
ira in illis diebus that ended at the frontier

at least it was chill to think, but the border
floats, or even worse, recedes, and the tropic

tendrils creep up to some day of no retreat
and all too much steam and melting ice,

once a sign of solidity—no more, just the flow
upward whence we can only drop beads—go down

Open Letter

Greetings to you whom I will never meet,
for most paths will never cross, so this

will be my substitute: hello, I hope you
are doing well and have—and will continue

into your future I will never see but may
imagine as a courtesy to your coming

experience and value of the life you will
lead totally without me or any awareness

of my living and acknowledgment of your
state, which unilateral lack does not trouble

me, as I am looking for no charity though
certainly would accept it if you ever deigned

to think about me in a fleeting feather
of attention whose tickle I might feel in one

of the places and years in which you and I
will remain ever unknown to each other and apart

Safe Inside

The pain is moderate—just a stubbing
of the little toe—which I contain as if boxing

a sharp blade after cushioning it in paper
to double the dulling during the transport

of the continuing day where I must dwell
with exposed legs, feet, and digits, continually

moving between obstacles that sometimes
may meet such pioneers, with hope that I can

continue to gift-wrap such nerve-wracks,
keep safe and managed until the pain

drains to memory instead of being swallowed
by a monster, a wave thrice my size

no wrapping can anesthetize, just give
free throbbing reign that engulfs all the outside

Transferable Skill

Why learn to strike the number keys
without looking when already decided

to leave the city, so waste the working day
—as if a salaried daytime worker—

plus the subway fare—even looking
like those fortunate and eating in common

on May’s sun-struck plaza so acting the part
of one who has it modestly made?

But if no one notices the difference,
the impersonation, harm is naught

since the instruction is free, and after two weeks,
one can leap, blind, over the top letter line

then carry in secret the skill five hundred miles
to the new, having gaining the ability

to punch (if needed, in the dark), the indispensable
Indo-Arabic row, marketable for the remainder of life