is what occurs to me, watching you
lead them towards the gondola,

the prospect of a few thin cables
dangling you like a box of kittens,

our children looking down,
a thousand feet above reliable earth,

laughing, noses mauling the icy glass,
little breath clouds that blur the view.

And when at last you are lifted
into the mountain’s buried side

to where my eyes can no longer touch you,
I will sample the small dark thought

of never seeing you again,
in which case I beg to be taken—extracted,

suddenly, preternaturally zapped away,
as if I were never here, and loved that much.