I see Peekskill Hollow deepen
as I roll over Hamburg Mountain,
ignore the pressure against my inner ear,
tricked eyes resting on the lesser Catskills
until the plunge past Breakneck Lane
curves an undercut stone bridge,
a lunge like sun down the ridge,
or your long slalom schussing a flurry of t-cells.
We are from a family of cancers
gracing early snow on scarlet ivy,
our relentless growth the same
as locust and sumac stacking chlorophyll
against every storm.
When the weather warms,
I'll hack at the light green sprigs
with a rush of blood
I just don't feel tonight,
all the pull of gravity and tomorrow
dwindling into the flats
below Heaven Hill Farm.