The mountains, they began as the space between two plains.
Two rough edges came together on a molten day.
We climbed the back of a granite scar a mile high,
right up through the clouds into the unencumbered sky.

Loving is a battle, like talons clutched mid-flight,
tumbling around right out of the sky.
But we’re born to be broke open like some porcelain swine,
though we covet like a mother all the things we’ve left behind.

Is this the height of love?
Two bodies braced against pain,
like a birth from some gaping space between the plains?

A man, a monk, he once wrote about a body of broken bones.
He said every time we meet someone we feel the seething wounds
of having fallen from the sky, from the grace of garden life,
from the chrome-filled kitchen of the Gods.

To know me is to hurt me.
To breathe is to break.
So, break with me, break with me, come together.

If I had a life for every smoke I’ve shared at midnight,
I’d be a complicated woman with a lot to explain.
I’ve loved a hundred others, in the past and up ahead,
in the spiral of the morning shaking songs across our bed.

We gave our bodies to the cave in a sulphuric embrace,
but the weight of those mountain gifts was too heavy to bear.

The ground beneath my feet springs back against my step
with centuries of fallen trees and Maple seeds and Death.
I’m cradled by the Love that has fallen at my feet
like a seed, like a seed, like a seed.

Is this the height of love?
Two bodies softened by pain,
like a birth from some gaping space between the plains?

To know me is to hurt me.
To breathe is to break.
So, break with me, break with me, come together.