Traveling through the Smoky Southerns,
passing across the coal and iron brow,
something we did halfway through summer
found us furrowed on each other
in bearded bluebent ridges.
The Northeastern continent’s
bovinic women discuss the fine weather
of the State of Franklin in fig dresses.
Our name is of the big southwestern,
parched grasses and clouds’ tantrums,
of the Northeastern flooding
we left back in the big drown.
Now the city streets of Asheville are heavy,
cloaked in flannel, and the oxygen is velvet in the summer
where Patton Avenue catches fire, once fell to ashes.
The hues that made the mountains come to repossess the rain,
come to reclaim something lost in bluestem
and errant honeygrasses, that grew from pain.
So too comes a feeling with the drawing back out Westward.
There is nothing to fight against it when home calls back for me again.