No combustion fingering the fuel reaching just
a pause on the flat low, mergansers brushed
on the thinnest top measure of water.
Urine splashing our toes, dizzying Canaan down the road.
Pitching and rolling, each with a hand
on the thing we burst from, holding ourselves
at the low middle. Dutifully maintaining
the fire break, carefully aiming,
staring straight ahead, begging the natural forces.
Poem by Matt Thomas
I’m a Virginia livestock farmer, DC tech worker, and occasional community college teacher. I live with my best friend and our daughter in the Blue Ridge Mountains. I work every day to be a better poet but am so far unpublished.