On Sunday afternoon in Georgia I had nothing to do
So I sent myself back to Georgia underwater
In the traditional manner of the English

 Innumerable scratches on the shore
        Like an old alley shot toward the stars

All my life I had hoped someday to own
at least myself, only to find I am
Flood’s ligaments, the aureole of Mamma,

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:

Into disappearance
The leaves let go

Tonight in the Southwest
Sadness is disappearing

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

My uncle who got around told me they plastered
money on the pictures, and threw coins
at all the saints.