BLAST PRESS at gregglory.com

I don't belong here, in this creation.
The clear air flies around me,
One frenzied blue wing escaping.

The path up is all grey wrecked stones
Made naked where the runoff comes bursting in Spring.
They hint at the uppermost, topless spot
All bald flat bold long rocks
Veined with autumn-leaved vines and dry ivies.
Now I can see what 
I have been pushing for until
My head and shoulders are slick with afterbirth.

Over the cliff, the landscape patches itself together.

A bare, thin
Cigarette smoke of veiled haze
Puts a varnish finish to the valley.
The Delaware lays like a wet, crooked stick
Abandoned in a ditch.

From up here,
At the brownish prow of lookout rock,
I can almost see my whole stupid life.
Clouds assemble, whispering frigid things against me.
I have no idea why nobody's here with me,
Why I have no lovers at my age,
Or why I'm tearing my loafers out on a mountainside,
Scoring water off of strangers
And trying to forget my face
With my back 
Against this cliff.