Dead tree live tree fornicating beavers
not on the mainstream but on every eddy
chew hard and persistently forming anew
the way the world will be after you.
At a fisherman’s retreat without fishing
at Rancho Starvo, at the church of summit,
at the blending of aspen and fir, boulders
near to where they were made and pushed
up then down bottom top turvy bound.
Here there are no garages, no cafes,
no self-melting driveways, no breweries.
Here the poet bites his tongue.
A bridge from when there was money for it
the dirt road circles as if to be returned
if you get stuck there it will be for a while
no place for poet or sedan or child.
It doesn’t look steep but keeps going up
your pleasure is mine saith the Lord of Wild
then all of a sudden a pasture and a hut
a bend in the river where flyfishing is big.
How do humans get here, how do the elk
cope with the depths and deal with the exposure?
Here the lack of a map is telling,
here even the tourist is a poacher.
A hand up to the escaping brightness
soon it will be as gone as the bend behind
a nod of admission to the unpressurized
atmosphere where distraction descends.