Mountains and Rivers Without End

I drove up to the Maury with all my Lightning Hopkins
records and a case of twentypercent wine.
Stayed drunk all the time and did a lot of flyfishing. During the second
week sometime, I scrambled up the bank started shitting my guts out:

I hunched on my heels in the middle of the sun,
sweat and dry grass tickling at my asscrack, and finally said ‘okay.’
I poured out the rest of my wine and drove out to the Cowpasture.
Fishing’s better. Water’s cleaner. Good country.

When the good times dried up, I bought more wine
and drove down to where the James first crosses into Rockbridge.
From the James ended up at Lower Otter creek,
where I drank my wine, ducking federal cops and pricks in sports cars.

Followed the Roanoke River out into Montgomery County,
sat under an old brick railroad bridge at the north fork,
got drunk and watched vultures landing in the cowfields,
counted sundrops on the ridge as night came on.

Slept in my car in a long field along the Little River up in Floyd.
Got it in my head that I’d see the fog on Mt. Rogers one more time—

Got a notion to drive my car into the New River, but I sobered up and made
it into Grayson county. Found my way up to the stone shelter on Mt. Rogers.
Sat in the wet grass by the spring sipping at water cupped in my hands,
trying to forget the names of bacteria you hear of. Nasty five syllable words.

I fell asleep praying out loud it wouldn’t storm and singing
“I’m gonna get me a Mojo Hand” by the warm ashes of my fire.

Greenville

Clockticks and the slow fall of rain.
In the oven, bread begins to rise.
Another cigarette thickens the air
between us as your lips finally part to speak.
Your hands brush the carafe under the automatic drip:
only silence streaking in colored drops down our window.

Wet branches plastered against the window
stretch faint afternoon shadows at your feet. Rain
seeps through the cracks in the ceiling, drips
into your coffee. From your cup, steam rises.
There aren’t any words for speaking.
The clock ticks. Your lungs fill with air.

Each exhale fills the kitchen with stale air.
In the yellow glow of streetlight, clouds form on the window—
It’s been at least three days since you last spoke.
Three days of waiting for the rain
to pass. We wait in bed for signs of sunrise,
listening to the pan clang when the roof drips.

In the night, I get out of bed, collect the drips
with the palm of my hand, and again the air
is still. I stay like this until I hear you rise
from your side of the bed. Through the window
things turn milky grey. Another day of rain.
Your throat opens, but again you do not speak.

For Richard Hugo

I kiss the
tamarak root
in the sharpness
of November. Mud-
Leathered Frog bites
back the rain.

From the hot throat
thick Dog rolls
his eye toward
wavering clouds.
Mud-Leathered Frog
bruises the sky.

Softly, Dog cuts
the rain with a laugh.
Mud-Leathered Frog
slinks away,
as if to say,
“There is no more.”

Late Afternoon

Flamenco Sketches played on repeat.
The smoky taste of the skin of your stomach in the sunlight:
your shoulders dripped bourbon and sweat.

Your breathing deepened as the sun went
down through the crooked window blinds.
Flamenco Sketches played on repeat.

The brush of a nose and the rustle of blankets,
as soft light slipped across your thighs:
the walls dripped bourbon and sweat.

Your nails across my neck,
as your grip on my shoulders tightened.
Flamenco Sketches played on repeat.

I breathed sharply, holding your sigh for a moment.
My lips grazed your earlobe, as they came to lie
on your shoulders. I kissed bourbon and sweat.

I followed you from the window, after you left,
listened to your car start, stared at your empty spot in the streetlight.
Flamenco Sketches played on repeat.
In my mouth, the taste of bourbon and sweat.

Summer in Bridgeport

Beer stains on the cuff of my sleeve
where I laid it across the table on your wrist—
an audible creak in the still kitchen when you shift your knee.

You look at me. Mirror my grimace,
only for a second, before the corners of your face sunk
into the same stare you’ve worn for weeks, with

your matching grey sweatpants and unwashed coffee cups.
Endless deadpan discussions about the ups and downs of your fantasy baseball team:
for a day I follow you through the house, listening, picking up mislaid cigarette butts.

Lights go on in the house across the street.
We sit in our dark living room as the evening turns blue.
We dream aloud of nice things to say. Of ways to agree.

Skunk Ape

My cousin Robert is back from basic.
We sit on the back porch drinking beer,
listening to frogs, crickets

listening to shadows run long
over the fresh cut grass of the lawn,
listening  to rustles in the underbrush.

Out front, the occasional truck
bouncing shocks, things clanking in the bed,
the headlights stretching up into the treeline.

After a while Robert gets up, shuts the cooler,
heads inside. I don’t bother asking—
I’m unsteady on my feet, but the cooler isn’t far.

As I reach to reopen the cooler,
I see that great hairy back rise up
through of the tangle of dark brush:

two bright eyes glancing over a matted shoulder
basking for a moment,
in the distant glow of my porch light.

The frogs and the crickets continue.
My eyes strain as the skunk ape becomes night,
distant creaks in the underbrush

I scratch my head, and sit, opening another beer.

Oedipus at Antietam (age 23), Oedipus at Harper’s Ferry (age 14), Oedipus at Gettysburg (age 10), Oedipus at New Market (Age 8, Age 14, Age 21)

It’s hot.

Dry summer grass.

Open, rolling                                      and trees.
Little stone walls and wooden fences.

At Antietam, there’s a church and a stone tower;
you can see down the sunken lane-when I walk across Burnside’s bridge, it’s nothing like I imagined it would be.

Harper’s Ferry,
Susquehanna–you can stand in three states at once here.

I like playing in the rocks at Devil’s Den.
Grandmom showed me a picture of Dad
with the rest of the family here, when
he was my age.

Dad tells me that when the mountains get long and flat
we’re getting close to New Market.
The museum is still my favorite part–
it’s as good as Richmond, but not as good as Yorktown, which has a ship.

Driving back down from D.C.
I pull off and eat my lunch near an old cannon.

Oyster

the Atlantic creeps closer
to the walls of my house each time
a wave crashes on the shore.

I caught a lemon shark last week,
though I am not sure whether it is the cause
of the change in the wind or a result of it.

My favorite bar is in Eastville—
each time I start the car, my mind
floods like the engine with a fine, misty vision.

But the ocean is patient;
it never once dreams of any sudden, final leap.

And someday                    the waves will stop altogether.

Oedipus at the Batting Cage

My older brother
tells me I’m over-swinging.
I tell him to go fuck himself,
but I still wait to hear what he says next.

We are here every weekday
in the afternoon, and after dinner
until 10:00

when they turn off the lights
and shut the cage.

Spectator Bird

Last night,
watching the empty room spin,
laughing at every woman I ever loved.

Drunk again tonight
watching the curve of your spine shift
A rush of blood
from my red face
when your fingertips brush my arm.

You threw away
our last pack of cigarettes Tuesday.
You fall asleep breathing into the crook of my neck.

I think, listening to you breathe,
that I’m not going to spend another night here:

My hand is suddenly thick again
as I roll off the bed onto my feet.
I stumble putting my shoes on.
I kiss your forehead.
The door shuts louder than I meant.

Outside looking up,
I realize I’ve left the lights on.