Whether Dressed or Naked
On this summit
an invisible razor wind,
pares me down to my bones.
Why am I here,
the reasons, I don’t remember.
what is left of me now is the fleshless, bleaching—
On this mountain top,
the burlap air,
the tattered stones—
from the hollowed out cavities,
I hear the dry whistles, rising,
rising, turning into a singular note.
published in Siegel, Ellen., & Riccio, Ottone. (2009). Unlocking the Poem. iUniverse.
*revised in 2012