You do not move mountains with money
you move mountains with faith.
Nobody would dare to move a ship over a mountain.
The driver wears a laurel coat.
He is the supreme overtone director.
He corrects the tiny movements
of your telephonic arms. In your mild crybaby winter
engagement of the past, you remember forestry.
You remember turtles filled with plastic. A great machine
has the potential you always knew
it had. The birds swing sideways
over the once and again great land. Shame,
the driver’s continual relation. He is never found
hiding in the spaghetti squash patch, where you think
it would be usual to ever be found. He is
never there to begin with. The patchwork and honey
carry inside a great number, and you
carry on in the shadow of that great number,
driven hard over this river of sand.
I picked the red shirt.
I picked the greatest quick gray brains
out from the punch bowl.
Where were our feelings
headed off too? The great city by the river
gave up a headache, the ladies
said the glitter was fantastic.
That’s hardly fair. It’s very hard
running in and out the doors,
repeatedly, with this much drink
dissolving in the pit of one’s palms.
I meant to say maps.
Everything mouthed was starry-residual.
I picked the red shirt and
she arrived, doily and lemon full, fanged.
Fowl murder on the quad before dawn.
I picked up the . . . our very best very best.
We carved the tunnel, carved it in our names.
MIKE KRUTEL is from Akron, Ohio, where he is a co-curator of THE BIG BIG MESS READING SERIES. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in NOÖ, iO, Jellyfish, Big Lucks, and Forklift, OH.