everything forks and branches
you can’t get there from here
unless you go sideways first
like a knight in chess
or a long-tailed weasel
hunting in the stiltgrass
you must run out
of luck or lumber
get saved by a discount preacher
behind the barbecue shack
lose an argument
with the moss
wonder what horrors
lie hidden beneath your feet
wrapped in duct tape
sealed in mason jars
but you learn the new
bump and grind
of mountaintop draglines
or fracking rigs
the way a chainsaw mutters
between screams
how the creek can rise
from a lullaby to a roar
and wash away all
our post-industrial middens
how there’s a rambling rose
that blooms every june
in the small of the back
of beyond
