Clouds shoulder mountains, belly into ridges.
Mount Constance on my left, the Brothers on my right.
Dinner tonight – fresh boletes and chanterelles.
A south wind tastes of rain. Grouse thunder
from the brush. Holes in the cloud-cover
leak mountain peaks and sky.

My pocket knife, a Swiss flag,
is sharp despite years of careless use.
The boletes are golden orbs,
round against my palm.
They smell like sex.

My Whisperlite hisses flame.
Water set to boil. Top Ramen ready
for the hot swelling,
the melding with wild mushrooms.
Thai basil, diced, redolent,
scatters like blossoms over noodles.
A small onion peeled and off-round as the planet
rests on my pack. I lift the yellow globe, savor it,

lay the onion on a flat rock.
Slide the blade through.
Feel a shock as it enters flesh.
Feel the sting of onion juice and blood.
The mingling. I cannot tell how bad it is –
too much of me is pouring out set free of skin.
The pot holder, my white sock,
seeps into red. I look up to see clouds
shafting into blue against granite.


The hike down staggers the gorge,
then veers against a gray rock face.