Do you know how she became like this?—

Breaking into fragments

and mixing with the sand.

She was monumental.

She lay across the Rocky Mountains,

but now she is eroding.

Look at her—

At the shadows made by the angles of her jagged bones.

You may see her in segments,

Love her in portions—

her distance and misery,

the erotic tingle nudging at your senses 

her restless, pleading eyes.

She begs to sink into the sand

and suffocate in vastness;

instead you surround her with your arms and mind.

She fades into you 

You: mountaineer— You had

trudged across her sloping breasts—

explored the concave of her thighs;

You collected the dirt form the tread of your shoes,

and grew plants from that soil

that wilted, black, as your memory faded. 

Yet you have contained her.

She has settled in garden pots,

and gathers under your fingernails.

Encounters pieces of herself there,

that are not pieces of herself any longer, for

now she is the dirt stains on your hands,

the work-stains of a life

dedicated to constructing mountains.