Croak from a Thorny Dark Holler

sweet month
of June
uprooted
and high,
in the high
White Pine

Halloween
backwoods,
set deep
in the jagged and the vale,
the house
wears a mask

old granite
gibbous,
thunderstorm
oak leaves,

Son of
the Stars
something
they call
Old
Barracks Road,
It's beginning
to thaw

29th Infantry
set sail
at dawn,
port of call
will be empty
forever and some

macaroni
stockings
on the girl
of the times

Jeffer
sonian
formations
in Black Walnut
clay

your reverent
baby blues,
open
and shut

black diamond
girl,
rose of
San Antone,
low evening star
of gloom and heather in the hills,

far below
ironwood
valleys,
travelers
of old,
longpaved
crossroads
of freshcut
trails