Palms for the Mountain Man

I heard this,
That there was one in the blood
And one in the head.
I found it hard to believe.
But I did.
I was told of an angel of my better nature
And that this angel
Cast no shadow
And stood with tongue of flame in the palm in its hand
With eyes that looked forward
And eyes that looked back,
Itself divided and
Not without human anger.

A grey old man was the mountain.
The pine cones burst with minor russets and a deeper shadowed brown.
Iodine clears the spring of giardia
And an orange eaten quick clears the taste
Of iodine.

That’s a lost notion. The angelic.
Odd birds, who go in for seeing the departed
Reeling and napping in glorious afterworlds where
Every break in the window
Let’s you look down and back
At the world that was.

My old man went mad and lay on the front lawn
Saying, “Come peck out my eyes, you little black fuckers.”
The crows ignored him
But why were there so many there?
I’ve been in love with the only one
Now twice or three times only.
This shows character.

The grey old man opens his arms
And the deer run out
With quick fakes before setting course, desperate,
And he shows his teeth and his anger
And the fires rise up
Among the blue pines
And we were told with incredible precision
Of two selves, the one of blood
And one of mind
And that these selves
Were themselves constituted like moons in orbit.
We were fine in confusion.
We struggled to believe.
But we did. Muttering, dissolute, finding accord
By accident or design.