Sound the authorities: the water
is sweeter here. Hot
like a hand to the fanny.
Renounce yourself,
born sinner, and hollow
your throat. Renew renew. We
poach in this country —
on land maybe once ours,
we go out in pure cold night
until our spindling fingers ache
from digging, more delicate
than gossamer spider webs.
For our honeyed manna
is finer than lily of the valley
water, worth life and a half
for one bite from its human
root. Around here,
invasive species talk
is just blasphemous folk
tale. Divinity never causes
harm when wealth’s safety
canopy overhangs its
growth. In this country,
you can feel its hum
even in your old hill-
billy filaments. Our blood
lust for healing. They say
there’s a whole field
of it somewhere beyond
the pines where God
is, a naked child who
can’t decide between
dancing and pacing.