STRIP MINE
Norfolk-Southern is carrying coal
to feed air conditioners and Las Vegas lights.
The hills, pierced by augers, bleed onto belts,
drip onto trains. Spoil tumbles down the slopes,
oil rainbows paint the stream.

In bull dozed layers, soil bandages the cuts. Replanted
in rye and Scotch pine, smoothed land has no tiny caves
or moss forests. The red eft cannot return. Kudzu
and poison ivy trellis trees, hides the sign declaring
the site reclaimed.

Rain knifes the red clay

ETHERS
I count of the clicks
of aluminum welds
until the cap gives up.
Oaken vapors uncoil.

At 14, I started with rum.
Later, bourbon; the smell,
the currents it formed
when mixed with water over rocks.
One drink would hide me,
not smart enough, not good enough,
not enough.

That last night, drink in one hand,
smoke in the other,
I am sure I was astute,
maybe even witty.
I stumbled home.

I lay naked on the bathroom floor
all that erudition coming up in waves.
Sweat puddles on my skin.

Wild Turkey slides smooth
from the bottle like a cobra
from the tipped basket.