You half wake me from a dream of mountains,
a hand grips my thigh, and with my eyes open,
I smile back at your shadow. But I blink,

my dream unfinished, I am a mountain
more true than your mouth or body.
“I am a mountain,” and you begin climbing.

We pull at our selves who are not ourselves,
I can’t feel your hand or cock as you climb,
only the soft shame of rock and dirt yielding.

You don’t understand the crying when I wake
or what I could mean when I pant
into your chest, “I was a mountain.”