The ridge road takes the ridgespine every way
It turns. It threads the granite venebrae
And old. wind-dwarfed ponderosas that twist

Behind the chains and sawblades on the north wall of the shop, I found the packrat’s nest, his fetishes:

Father says the worst thing is a windless December night with no moon, no stars, just snowlight glowing in through the windows, lighting the path to the spring house.

1.
Technically it was liquid asphalt:
MC, RC, or 85/100—
nothing very far removed

Tonight in the Southwest
Sadness is disappearing

Tonight in splash-marks

They had their own churches in their own
parts of town, some with domes like onions.
My uncle who got around told me they plastered

The best way to eliminate guilt
Is to have nothing to feel guilty about.
Thus spake my surrogate father

Like the bells
That could be ringing out of heaven now
For all my ears can tell,

A large unpleasant woman
Is chasing a songbird around the kitchen
With a broom shouting

Then he deflowers her, pulling away the greenery.
Then a blue vein thinning into a hollow.
Then it is the hollow between her neck and lower jaw.