I.
I could have stayed here,
where the eight long necks
of oak trunks stretch
out over the creek, and the door
torn off the barn in a storm
could open its rusted hinges
at any moment into
the other world: under the slowmoving
water, down into the layers of rock
and impossible caverns.
An unending descent. I came here to play
as a child, not knowing
that this is a valley
you and I could never equal.
Something eternal
and poisonous. The night’s breath
that could be the pipe organs
of burnt-down churches, a song
quavering blue and deep
as an underwater city.
This entrance to your underworld and mine,
the valley’s black-green body slippery and sweet
in summer, an inconstant lover
that pulls us under every time.