A poem by Mullen Metcalf

I’m watching the mountains fromthe back of my skullwhile Dan the German Touristburies his nose in the magazine left behind the train seat. He doesn’t see me drifting through thestars and clouds offog and freeze,rivers and trails of Grindelwald,Switzerland unfolding in my peripheral vision.Dan the German Touristdoesn't look upto see my spiritstrike down through thevalleys and hills.He doesn't seemy fingers brushing through thethe streams and lakes.My guts stand alone at thetippy-top of pale blue peaks,waving like a gooey clothesline.They don’t call out to me—they are homeand want nothing to do with theempty shellthat falls past(skin and bones and shoes and all)and melts into the thick black dirt. Featured image by Johannes Hofmann on Unsplash