At Forty, the Mountains Are More Green

Here the melting, there the glacier
already gone. All these years, I’ve watched
my body as if from a distance

nearly geologic: the comings and goings
of a thousand tiny fossils against my flesh.
Last night, beside my sleeping wife’s form

in the ageless glow of my phone,
I scrolled past the before and after
of butt implants, celebs who maybe did

or didn’t, and the pregnant model
who last week had the silicone removed
from her breasts. I’ll still have boobs,

she said, they’ll just be pure fat. Upstream,
they’re taking out the dam, diverting
the creek. This morning, I woke to the dull

scalpel of dozers. Soon they’ll loose the fish
from the chute and finally the bodies
within that body will be free.