I stood security the first six weeks.
Nobody minded the moon. The sun
you could reason with. Other
weathers, otherwise.

We smuggled a tunnel whole into the withering mountain:
a gut, an intubation,
fed it along length by strenuous length. Now &
then it kinked & squirmed. The mountain bristled hackles.

A few of us ran out of the same
time a few of us ran into: collisions, versions
& revisions of the vanishing act.

Before, since, I never scrambled so from fear.
The only camouflage is to lick oneself
newborn, covered with hide in the first place.