In skis,
My feet are like
The metal tines
Of a two-pronged
Fork
Gliding through
The flour-snow
Of an Earth-baked mountain
Of a slope
Sprayed and
Splayed
With sleet.
In skis,
My feet
Wobble.
I follow a
Trail,
A winding ladder
Without rungs that
Sprawls from my father’s
Heels.
In skis,
My feet are my eyes,
For faces are nothing
When wrapped in cloth and cold,
And my ears
Hear
Only
White,
As if I were in the belly of a ghost.