David Krump

how they danced

It's very strange to stand here, wishing you
desolation, like a bad fairy godmother at the cradle.
—Louise Gluck
  Baccalaureate Address, Williams College, 1993

You will call down the mountain.
The mountain will not come.
Intrigue may fill the water,

but the water will be unmoved; it will
nap at your feet. It will not stir,
though you'll float fast flat rocks at it.

Though you will rage with sandstone,
speckled granite, softening recollections
cycling about the bitter oaks, water will not run from
you.

They will probably build more mountains:
the small women, small men, small horses
laboring under the earth plates, twisting

in labor, cranking around the water, dragging
down small suns. You will call over water.
You will call down the mountain.

More water will seize, oceans will level.
This may disturb you. You may stay home
if you like, but of course you will come.

The mountain will not come down, and
your cursing and flailing about now, your new
dance will not so much as crack that gypsy cloud,

though it hangs there like a fat black apple.
Dark Cloud cohorts with Still Water. They are
winking. They want you to sleep. You can hear them
now?

They aren’t well anymore. They will call down
the night. Night is a good child, such strong teeth.
Night will come. You will fall down the mountain.

You may stay home. And because you won’t even
notice the quicksand, dipping its perverted hands
into the breath of your green eyed babies, two birds
will cry.