On Mount Bigelow
We find ourselves sweating, climbing
against the earth’s
long swallow. The breezeless wells.
We are wax weakened in sun, wounds rolled in salt. We force
against a hot torrent
of August. Endlessness
of switchbacks and false summits.
At last, through a weather of flies, pushing
at the rotted boards
of our limits
Blue attics, a valley-talk of wind: up
among the ridge-wealth, the airs
and immolations, the bells and alarms
of mountains. A blue-green purpose, a torture of pine, arms
crawling. We drift above the precise earth,
the logging scars and pincushions.
Green lakes and light-lakes.
Humid bales of sky. Our blood
declines, our living is burning away.
at the extremity of an infrastructure, where a fire tower
of mere filaments
on the thread of its approach.
David Troupes has published two collections of poetry, Parsimony (2009) and The Simple Men (2012), and his work has appeared many journals on both sides of the Atlantic, including Hayden’s Ferry Review, Fugue, Nimrod, PN Review, Poetry Wales and Carcanet’s 2015 anthology New Poetries VI. Having recently completed a PhD and a Jerwood Opera Writing Fellowship in the UK, he is happily planning a return to his native Massachusetts with his wife and two daughters.