Whisper

Dark Mountain, whisper across
my valley, my spine.

If ever I turn like calm tide
it is toward your hot appetite,
sweating sweet pine across
empty June nights.

Blood echoes throughout
my arid river. I am twisted
in expressed wish.

Your land slides;
hands down thick mounds
of victory –

for you. For me,
you are empty;
the last trace of you drips
from the lips of
another – but where is she,

Dark Mountain, where is she?