Scott Neely
Passage
August,
Cowpens
today
before the heat
leaves wait
—
cicadas blister the air
—
night comes down the mountain
crickets in my ear
crickets in my ear
+++
September,
Wofford
2:23, stars
leaning out the window
night tight against my chest, exhaust
+++
darkening, wind
I-85 S from Gaffney
dusk gold
sears blue mountains,
night swallowed mountains
burn
+++
December
Walking the woods.
Briars, blood.
—
Beech
stands above stone water
tucked in the hill’s thigh.
+++
New Year’s Eve,
Peter’s Creek
First flakes
pop on dry leaves.
Evening on the hill.
Skeleton trees
scatter ranks.
The heavy sound of a train
on the wood’s hem.
+++
Road North
I-40 into Tennessee
Exhaust through the vent.
Squeezed between trucks and concrete.
No chance to see the mountains.
These hills don’t even see
our blur.
+++
Smokies
bristly, bald stone—
nestled like toads
in their chins.
+++
Road South
Gethsemani to Sullivan’s Island
Coat hangers ring
bells in an empty closet.
—
Burst of ash on sand.
She stifles her cigarette
before passing the first dunes,
wraps the stub in silver gum wrapper.
Acrid smell trails behind her,
my feet hit February water.
+++
March,
Spartanburg
Blue through
the empty heads of oaks—
Tomorrow, sky says, cold returns.
Truck treads in churned clay dry,
wait for a last freeze.
+++
April,
downtown
Two maples
scrub the face of the Goodwill store—
in the rain, without sun.
+++
July,
Road Home
Black rat
snake on the road
curves, turns,
rots, gnawed by wasps.