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Mountain Folk The sign at the foot of the mountain Warns people to drive away, To go no further, Not even to exchange a word With any of them. They wait in trees or behind boulders. Who truly knows how it began For them? Long ago, we know, When a boy climbed Into bed with his mother One terrifying, thunderstruck night. And his son, and so on, All sharing a rancid love That has continued for generations, An aberrant tree growing Perplexingly into itself. None can be certain Of his relation to another, Some don't have the mind To contemplate certainty. They have stepped beyond Even the animals they hunt. Dim folk for whom lust Is common as breath, Who spend life falling in And out of a love They cannot know. For them, the only law is passion. Beware their tendency to wander. Their thoughts are as dim As the steep morning air, When they leave their worn nests, Descend to the foot of the mountain Watching for us, travelers. They wait and hope We will ignore the sign And enter their world, Climbing inside the grasp Of their always fevered loins.
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