Old Rag Mountain knots its blankety-blank head
and drags its sorry-ass tatter of a body behind.
That’s one slant.
Forget the name and it rises
solitary and uncanny out of the valley,
under slanting wisps of clouds in a blank sky.
On this old rock, devotees built a refuge
where ragged minds go blank
in slants of sun and shade.
At dusk, the mountain slants black and blank
over desultory old rags of mind and light
before all falls black and blank.
On the slope, on a bear path,
green briars prick.