The Alps
How do you light the Alps I wonder,
out of thunder? Is this hello? The way
we stand close by, and then you ask me
what the word is for this kind of rain.
Three days or so.
I am merely curious to see
when I look at you.
That old persona trained
to memorize. Your hands
around my coffee cup.
The stones of my temple
are eaten by the air. Uncertain
stress on syllables that find
you. Is this the way to say;
“I know”?
For I must wait to see you, how?
And still the sun cannot decide.
Works out this way. Your eyes
too far away to tell. I’m thinking of you
now as though the Alps
were real. Simplicity
in courage like your laugh
with time to spare that says
there are no Alps.
Except for show.
Jonathan Jones lives and works in Rome where he teaches English and American literature at John Cabot University.