In Logan, West Virginia
the mountains are so high
you can only see the sun
in the middle of the day.

But I never saw the sun
in Logan, for it rained
the three days I was there.

On my last night in Logan
the man in the hotel room
next to mine went crazy
and shot his wife and himself
with a chrome-plated .22 pistol.

Through the open door
I saw it lying in a pool of blood
from the woman’s head.
That gun was the brightest thing
I ever saw in Logan.

I went down to a bar to get drunk.
I asked the man next to me
if God ever came to Logan.
“No,” he said sadly. “God died
years ago in a mine cave-in
and no one mentions Him anymore
around here.”