MT:  B. J. Best

                B.  J.  B e s t

MONTANA

this was the year that slithered, all eels.

i held a bonfire to prove smoke

wasn’t wholly ghosts. i kicked

a dog thinking of someone else.

there, you bought a compass drawn toward

injured birds. i knew eyelashes were traps,

but your calendar ran on bent bottlecaps,

seething away all you could afford.

we weren’t precise when we said each glacier

was the equivalent of a tear, or the redhead

in great falls every fantasy we had.

though the pregnancy of stars was easy to measure:

we ate green apples cold.

we drove when we could.

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