I’ll come back to you
in the hour of basalt and copper,
back like floodwater pressing its
shoulder against the ribs of the valley.
When I rub bear fat into my boots
a star disappears and the bones in my hand
become a set of gears
bringing electricity to this canyon
of burnt oil and jagged creeks.
When I say your name
the meridian goes bright
as the bit in a blind horse’s mouth.
When I say your name
a bucket of sparks empties into the river
and the night sky is streaked through
with charred snags and shale.
Each night a new ghost
lays out a single crosstie
and a farrier’s hammer
falls through the well shaft of my dream.
I am all steam polish and cable hum,
all snowdrifts clinging
to the north side of the ridge.
I turn coal into motion.
I lie flat on my stomach and drink
from the runoff like a mountain boomer.
I look into a wall of flame
and hear the songs of a trestle.
A buzzard throws down
the ace of spades
and I run a grease bead
across the axle of the moon
and make it spin.
The horizon opens its mouth
and strikes a match against its dry tooth
and I write this letter for you
and sew it into a pantcuff made of smoke
from these islands of the blest.
– Michael McGriff
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