Aught, no. 1 (1997)

Ron Tower

Clinton County

Ridge runner clouds the spear.
"Look, man, no realize. Put!"

The stones and alpine tires
are not the ridge runner.

When the water runs sweet,
oh sweet, sweet, tender mercy.

The hollow is filled now.
My grandmother with a walking stick.

Copperheads danced when I was born.
No, really, springs bubbled.

When the rains fall bitter,
oh bitter, bitter, tender mercy.

A jar in Kentucky or across the border.
She teared in the corn patch, trembled.

© 1997 by Ron Tower. All rights reserved.
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