Between the lines

Between the lines

(the cable, a few feet below the phone lines)

in free space—

except for the jutting roof,

and just subtract the edge of chimney

and the cutting pole itself—

a mountain thrusts and subsides,

all golden grainy in the storm-washed sunlight.

And now the glow has slid aside

and shadow takes the hillside,

and now the glow climbs piece by piece

and claims the crest again.

One mood melts and molds again

to melt into another,

and now the lines are losing definition,

fading with the mountain into evening.