Say I am godsized striving
to fit my love into a mountain
container. This valley
fits beeboxes okay, fits barbwire okay.
This valley is not wet enough however
to take a little pleasure, say half a cigarette
half stubbed out
in bad grass: say medusahead,
say cheat. This valley is not big enough
to contain the ridgefire. Soot however
fits okay.
.
Say pickup sticks,
say salvage logging,
good hard filthy work
much needed here.
Trucks empty the mountains
of matchsticks,
black heaps in the beds,
drivers blackened in the work, the old
in-n-out. Say it’s kinky. Say consumption.
Oh how we talk. Say fill ’er up,
reply stay safe up there.
.
In one roothollow a dead bear. Say Ursa Minor,
smoked then burnt. This always happens. Always later
a blues chanteuse at the corner bar
works all night
to stand it.
It’s all work.
The bartender’s godfingered striving to pour
my young wine
without spilling a drop. This valley
is both cask and cup. The wine
is what it always is.
Say I am godthirsty striving to sip.
