Surrounded by mountains I feel I should do mountains.

I buy postcards of them and climb them and eat on them,

And stand on their edges and stare out dutifully from them

At other mountains, thinking of bad art.

Like that, mountains are dumb, not smart.

They are heavy, for heavy poets decked out in gloom,

Who look for the good and the true in the cold and the bare,

And think of readers as flats over whom they may loom,

Beetle and tower, hour on hour.

Like them, mountains beetle less than they bore.

Why do we color mountains rather than weigh them?

Not White, not Green, not Blue, not Black,

But Hulking Mountains, Hefty, Hegelian Mountains

We should call them, or High Church Hills.

Like poets, mountains should go on reducing pills.