In the Hills

Measuring out the Jack
Daniels at I : 25,
closing the cupboard;

turning the faucet
for which I went
to dig out the spring

for which I let
the air out of the line
and heard gurgling;

swinging the glass
tinkling with cubes
and feeling the burn

in my throat; this is
the pilot light.
Stepping outside

onto the stones
hauled from the hills
by the man who left

the barns to tumble
and harness to rust in forty
years of hay, amid the sorrow

of vanished drayhorses,
that moon
above the burdock pile

(at the end of an aisle
and nave
cut out of high

timothy and weeds)
and advancing across
the grass where the dog sleeps

and looking up at
Orion, that
that is the flame.