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.