I got three bulls and a native cutthroat, lover.
I’m phoning from the bar in Victor.
One drunk’s fading fast. The other’s fast
with information—worms don’t work in August.
I found a virgin forest with a moss floor.
You and I can love there. Pack the food.
Sweathouse tumbles and where the bank
and cedar roots say this is where the shy cut
is, he is, and he comes lightning
out of nothing at your egg. Best of all,
the color. It could be the water, but the bulls
are damn near gold and their white dots
stark as tile. The orange spots flare
like far off fires. The body’s tubular and hard.
Cuts are rose and peach, all markings definite
as evil, with a purple gill. The drunk
passed out just now. It’s like a ritual.
They put him on a table where he snores.
They named it Sweathouse Creek because
somewhere way upstream from here
the Indians built houses over hot springs
where the sick could sweat bad spirits out.
That’s the jukebox. The other drunk can’t hear.
Screw him. This is August. I used worms.
But lover, the color, the markings on
the bulls and cuts, and that deep forest
and the moss—