My first crack at what I’m dubbing The Roethke-Hugo Exercise.

Tracking Nome for Trails

Wavering on dropping “Tamarack”
a mid-sized larch, these sources say
I’ve cut rocks tough as blue eyes,
sharp in soft beliefs, and shocked
the kiss you slagged away still bruises
frogs surprised to still be frogs.

Did clouds hug Nome’s bone trees
or curve to cool your throat?
One dog, fat in mud, licks leather
like your hand, just blue on powder,
not biting with gums or tonguing at
what’s left of leaves, pressed red for hours.

You’ll swing free, but turn right hard,
dropping all your things in tracks
the dogs can’t make. And colder
in time, the last important word
we’d take apart’s the larch, now known
through Nome to bear your words alone.

Cheated a little here and there, but it’s not too bad for a rusty old man. Will definitely try it again.

Okay. Now you.

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