Read a poem by another poet written
on the same day:

the road to Artists' Point
   wound farther than we expected.
23 miles to the fog-enshrouded peak,
not including the stop at the
   expensive grocery store.
23 miles to the fog
   one-third of the mystical 69,
   if you will.

and i will.
up past the ski camp,
   dry during summer,
up past the last of the mountain
   bracken, the horse bramble,
the rocky tundra that suggests Ireland,
   up drove it all in Artists' Point.
at certain times of the year
   one view the sleeping dragon Mt. Baker,
although why a dragon would be called
   a baker i don't know.
the rest of the time one wanders through
   well-worn footpaths and sits on
      exquisitely placed benches
neither too far, nor too near,
   and not too cold, either.
as if everything has been seen before,
   touched before, sat on, walked on,
   viewed, kicked, thrown, shouted,
   painted, vandalized, recorded,
   forgotten over the past 150 years
since a man decided he must
stand atop it and wave at his friends.

yes, Artists' Point, where they insist
you stay on the beaten path
for fear of further erosion.

epitaphs [?] but anything were it if
leap you that insist would i
! mountain the from

but in this case,
   the beaten path
   will get you home again.