The Mountain Hoax
San Bernardino, California
I smell mountain
overhead. The snow-cap
breathes a way
of its own, and leaves
icy traces
in the lower air.
On clear (there are some
such) days,
Iam told the mountain
is visible (60-
70) miles
in the distance. Up close,
it haunts the local
residents, seeming
to loom on all sides
at once. The casual
driver is so taxed
(unknowingly) by the effort
to resist its beauties,
he finds he must halt
the car or risk
a collision. On all
four sides the windows
are met by cliff,
its foliage and rock-
formations so stark
they capture the eye,
utterly. This day
in December, I
have only my memory
of local soft-
sell lore and a faint
twinge of the nostrils
to remind me that any
mountain exists
nearby. No fog
ever cuts into corneas
like this, nor leaves
so many layers
of blur-film so fast
on even door-windows.
You can hardly drive
a freeway-mile
before day appears
dusk, no help
from headlights. Spot-
lessly clean the moment
after wiping, no view
is visible, much
beyond the shoulder,
in full day-glare.
The verysightof so
much dirt-soaked air
leaves the strong of lungs
gasping for breath
and squinting back tears
as few sand-storms
in the desert exact.
An infrequent flash
of light on the foothills,
an occasional royal
palm thrusting
over the motorists
from the roadside planter-
space coaxes
me to remember what
State I am in,
what coast I am near,
what cold I have left
behind . . . but the cost, in
sight, weighs most.
Structure
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