Mont Sainte Victoire

 

Cezanne's Mountain 

i

Like ice, like iron,

glass, air, granite.  

 

The sun inside it,

through it, off it.

 

Purpling into thunder,

convulsing cumulusly,

 

bulging

 into storm.  

 

ii 

Sugary brilliance this morning,

the brow of Provence

clear as the first day;

a tooth, a molar.