There is a Mountain

There is a mountain
brooding
like an old man on his back,
his onetime stern brows
outlined
against a blossoming nightfall—
his pot-belly swollen grotesquely
with a for tree in his navel . . .

(Never see clefts,
only shadows
on flatness
as depths . . .)

The crimson clouds slowly strang
across the darkening blue shell
—suddenly disappearing
behind a thick sheet
that is the night.

The mountain slowly changes,
becoming an unbounded mass
without lines to persist
into disintegration,
disappearing
into its own background
and my thought . . .

—Ralph Unger'