Limestone is buckled against the sky,
hangs a craggy road around sinkholes.
Two farmers are lobbing dead tom-poults
down the steep karst eye of snowdrifts.
A buzzard has found a dead foal there.

I would pray for that ancient ocean.
I'd catch lightning in a clam's nerves,
twist some crinoid stalks on the seafloor.
I'd tell you their names bashed like fire,
and some shaking earth over their gills.
 
Rt. 100 over Cloyd's Mountain is almost
straight north/south, hanging millions
of years on a half billion dollars. The rocks
wait like an old preacher laughing in church,
nobody in the pews, the folks just riding by.