An Air
The sun is f-holed
bow-wrist-graceful
The violin is living
goose-flesh tremolos
Juncos at the feeder
vie contented and rest
A whorl is in the wind
is ever changing
its tense.
Fib
My
late
mother
told us all
when we were just kids
that we’d eat soap if we told fibs.
Window Song
Loon-music’s a shadow sound
on water. Mother moon is round
and polestar silvery. Northern dark.
Coals go quiet, ember out.
Quiver-voices from the other side,
from the totem trees. The river’s wide.
Aftermath
Sunlight, silver rain and silver maple
leaves are the elements of the window scene.
Last nights dessert still gleams on the table,
a sad strawberry drowned in the limp whipped-cream.
The window pane and kitchen mystery
both hinge and thus are ever swinging doors—
a crack of light, a shaded misery,
intentions that hide in the back of drawers.
A knife can be as dull as a stone is sharp.
The leaves will turn and show their silver side
before the eye is calm. A beserkers art
wakes the softer weather. The breaking tide
smashes the jagged shore smooth into grains
and sunshine still goes slanting through the rain.
B.C.
The coral light on rock out-croppings that jut
from sheer grey cliffs, above the static sea,
spun into your dark brown hair and cut
out through the languid limbs of hemlock trees.
West of Ambleside there’s only ocean,
so slow and seamless, time must take a bow
and leave the headlong deeps, their endless motion
of whispers to the horizon, without a sound.
A cross; East Van. Staircases creep with killers—
spoken wit so sharp it draws your blood
like blow up from the spoon through the filter
of a flicked butt, you fly your flag and thug
on a live corner, sawed-off sleeved and filed,
Up the dope, or keep a Knight Street grave.
Even the streets went still and dark and silent
when Spankey shot that full-patch in the face.
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