Along the Volcano

For Klaus Fluegge 

Liking to dream the mountain lives,
We suspect that, whether it has or not
The past five hundred years, will have
Or not in double that to come,
We would be here. Hard by the base,
A patched-up shack, victim of wind
Despite what rumors say, houses
Our drafting tables; pulleys, chains
Hoist our gear to the rim; down
The crater we’ve chiseled a flight of stairs,
Down to the jagged floor. Day in,
Day out, delicate samples taken,
Quantitatives and seismographic
Counts, an urchin belabored, and frankly—
Little more.  Hours spent
With our compasses on stools, frankly
We’re glad to stretch our legs, bundle
And climb back to the crater’s rim,
Pace in the wind beneath the moon
Till black glass blinds us; then, to the village
Where they watch us, buying the old
Men drinks for the hundredth time, who tell
Women they’ve loved like cards, in snow,
On stairs, or under a tropic palm,
Until we yawn good night… We have lain
Drunk in our hammocks, tossed, and wondered
What could it be that bores these holes
Into the gut and groin, and thought
Surely upon our deaths we must
Convulse with fire. Just for a moment,
One minute perhaps (so we have dreamed),
Others five hundred years from now
May confront, as they would a great danger,
Our white, brittle manuscripts fused with black.