In the Colder Valley


Tuesday, 93 miles west in the patient
blue stick-shift
at least five roads to choose

somewhere past a hairpin bend waits
Millers Falls, content to stay undamaged,
a dog in a pickup truck

somewhere along route 202
is a one-way street into the woods, and a store
where you bought the shotgun shells I still keep

I travel so far just
to catch the end of you

and at the end of this gospel
I made of you, what is there?
Perhaps it is beyond
recognition, some sort of river
flooded further than it did in '38

somewhere down West and South
is the strength it takes
to let you trail off like train smoke

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