Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Thirty-four
Spring 2014
Sand Mountain
Andrew Cantrell

Take where you’re moving a true girth
of gray elegance, arc tan of
wipers scraping windshield sky, trace
fullness of early frost shaken
from September dew.

Flaking plateau ridge-stone channel,
apricot-naked eyes a-dot
box elder matrices soft autumn
chill drape billowing lamplit dust:
I can only promise not to
come to you.

Guide of whistle calls, foundry cores
aglow from Trenton to Lookout.
Six-pack by your knees and “Gloria”
on the AM band, Sand Mountain
chill slackening wire-strung night’s in-
different tangle of gold-leafed trees.
This is to remind you that you
have a son.

Foreman’s laugh, discrete and drunk, varnish
of liquor and cheap wine’s vegetal
haze. Thrown iron tracks describe a gradient
south from mountainside to mill, and
liquefying panes, fey lights guttering,
still, presage afternoons of frost-dusked
chapel light. Snap in your hand of
slick-mossed stream rocks caught through a sill.
This is to remind you.

Endless scrape, finger’s careful echo
across bones of routine’s read pages.
Interval glare of atmosphere
and eye caught once.

At the gate a sapling winter pine,
growing in this emptiness.

About Andrew Cantrell

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