The Way Down
We do not speak on the climb to Cadillac Mountain.
The summit disappears under a lead nor'easter.
We retreat down a carpet of pine, the rank needles crack
and I'm sixteen, back in his musty Chevelle,
the air freshener swayed while we kissed to Led Zeppelin IV.
The bedrock kicks us out,
stumbling, mouths full of grit,
salt air wicking our
woolen tongues.
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