Summit Mist [sonnet]
Somehow you got your heat into my flow
and tinkered with the workings of my heart;
I thought I’d hurled you from me long ago
but every tactic used you did outsmart.
It’s like I chose the highest mountain top
to climb although ascent means certain death;
such scaling heights as yours (each side a drop)
enthrall me — I can hardly draw a breath.
But yet your body gives me confidence
and — like no other flesh has ever done —
you baste me in your moistful hole intense
and melt the avalanching midnight sun.
While on your summit all I see is mist
through which no other mountain can exist.
© 2012, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 