Bret R. Crabrooke (04/10/1978 / Berrien Springs)

Last of the populations in the snows,
Wearing the last of her feathers:
The mountain, a breast—in her weathers
and p%ssywillows—
My dogs get lost in the heat of her summit:
Two brothers, German Shepherds:
We find them the next morning, they come
Leaping, so glad to find us again,
So we can carry them off: I guess neither one
Of them weighs eighty pounds:
Eventually, one disappeared, and the other
We had to put down:
And last year, selling fireworks, the entire
Garden of Mount Escuidilla burned:
I fell in love with a Mexican girl, but very
Little was returned—
What joy that shown from my soul was not
Enough to dissuade her from her husband who
Used to beat her—So, eventually, I caught a plane to
Shanghai, in an effort to forget her:
And the mountain still stands, but she is full of
Ghosts—and from her towers—her aeries—
She can still see all the across the rivers and into
Mexico, where my poor muse’s sister is still laughing.