Acme

It is cold enough here
to be both dead and alive.
What I mean is,
my boots cleave
snow from scrub flowers.

It will become more pronounced
the further we go.
We will stop seeing deer
and find empty
wildfire watchtowers.

The hills bow desolate and magenta.
I pull on another sweater.
There is no telling the wind
from the rest of the air.

Nobody’s listening.
I see a red busting
athwart mountain faces.
There is the Devil’s Tower
off in the distance.

Sheer rock seals us
to the remaining path.
In crevices, yellow flowers are
stashed away.

God has weight
the more I transgress.
I begin to bargain
and care what He thinks.

A white chalk
covers my gloves.
The summit is also
the color of bone.

We become still like frozen.
There is less obstruction to the eye.
This is the highest point
between the Rockies and the Alps.