Andy Fogle
Maraca, rainstick, rattlesnake—no
telling if the sound is bird
or beetle. Gunk in the non-eye
of Mt. Greylock, I rub sleep
from my own, let the drone
of snores fade from my throat,
the soreness soften in the roof
of my mouth. Let the whiskey
in this bloodstream finally be
metabolized. Let me close these eyes,
exhale the fumes and faint shame.
Downhill on this lopsided
sidewalk—jagged puddles, root-
distorted squares—across
Route 2, between the funeral home
and the wet-blackened strip of woods,
the morning freight train—yellow cars,
blue cars, red cars, then yellow
again—and death-rush blood-roar rising
in the ears. Farther beyond, spiny
East Mountain, and farther yet—skymist,
gray-blind, fogwash—at last, an ending,
pockets full of sand, up in away.
[Check out Andy Fogle’s back porch interview]
