Whistler, BC
Skeletons on parade:
dressed in meat, flesh
donning exoskeleton
adorned by fox.
and they're levering the knee
ascending stair
hefting all accumulations
of their craving
which grabs & slacks
skeltering
wrapping up his wounded wrist
leading with the belly
Starbucks gript in fingers
limping up the concrete
wrinkling the ham string
sluicing up some
symptoms of July.
The couple grasping hands.
The women stroking.
The peddlers clenching dust.
The wheelbarrow fulls of belly.
The second round, infused with grapefruit.
The zip gear falling round his ankles.
The tanned expanse of foreleg.
Imbibing some clean fragrance:
pine and deep fry.
We're on an apex
cathedrals for the worship:
praise to gravity.
(Even as the feathers
of the crow
notched by age
scrape the summer roughly
suggesting winter stillness
that will paralyze,
and bury us in ice.)
But for today, we sport the
tie dye, we
strap some loops of
webbing, we
closet several symbols
of our freedom, we
bump our frame forward
cascading stair
slinging carabiners
on these hips, we
hold our kidneys
beneath rayon printed pineapple.
Dearest Mother, with her dearest
daughter
dresses matching, printed pink
joined by hands
climb the concrete
upbound ski hill under sky.
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