In our eyes they are the mountains…

by a. noelle

mono no aware ephemera

that we were promised: immutable.

But in word
they may as well be made of sugar.
They melt under their names
as under a hot running tap.

I could say nothing,
I should

give up singing these empty psalms,
hold your face tenderly between my hands
and turn it towards the view.

“Language” (excerpt) by J. Mark Beaver