This story could be true,

a thousand interpretations of light

gold and poison in my ambitious veins.

Coming down into that Montana,

that highway of broad masculine sky

was swift resuscitation.  It is with me now

in this boxy moment

the curving wall of obscuring breath.

Will my patience grow so free

as crabgrass, kudzu, wild white pines

on a full night of life?

I have always been lost

in the mountains,

even as they rescued me

laughing.