There’s no toe hold 
        for normal
just slippage and leakage
     and bodily drainage

There is at Indian Stairway
a passage to Frog’s Head
   etched out by hands 
  for feet to climb the vertical wall

I went there with a lover
     once
and spent the night howling
up into the Bell Dome
and making love in
  the sandy dirt
  of eroding stone

In the morning, seeping
 blisters and calluses 
 and calcified bug bites
we’re the memories we
we’re taking home with us
until she found an
    arrowhead under her head