IX
The southern sky
Is dim hazy purple
Where one adrift star
Has travelled up the wintry peak, to see
The heavens
Something is about to erupt. Time is still.
Four lakes away, a person hammering in the sky.
Maybe they will plummet.
One midnight in the spring
wandering wandering
along the hushed avenue
the avenue near the city
I passed looking at
a harbour a harbour
slimy of silver water
silver a large harbour
One morning in the spring
leaping leaping
along the hushed lane
the lane near the library
I passed looking at
a puddle a puddle
swirling of greenish water
greenish a great puddle
Arbutus and smooth hemlock
uplift scathing barbs
against the silver
and rainy sky;
and in the sea
blown droplets and wind drift
and thin, overwhelming spray
snap
at the whirling sky;
and the cedar trees
lean one way.
Riding the freight out of Kamloops in a
dawn after sun so close to
the wild stumble of rocks it's
like running and running
mad with winter in your mouth
let me be forgotten
as snow falls from the carmine sun
like a million million embers
until our footsteps are enveloped
One twilight in the summer
walking walking
along the still railway
the railway near the park
I passed looking at
a harbour a harbour
still of greenish water
greenish a tiny harbour
His body was tubular
And square
And smoke-red,
And as he passed the quay
He looped,
And snapped at a sparrow
That was dead and floating.
And I saw the flash of a pink throat,
And a row of white nails,
And eyes of metallic purple
Intent and narrow and slit.
Something is about to turn out. Water is still.
Four constellations away, a person flying in the sky.
For all you know you will sink.
Something is about to come to pass. Current is still.
One thousand states away, a person smiling in the sky.
Maybe you will stumble.
Her body was bulky
And square
And smoke-blue,
And as she passed the berth
She twisted,
And snapped at a sparrow
That was dead and floating.
And I saw the flash of a purple throat,
And a row of white choppers,
And eyes of metallic blue
Unyielding and tapered and slit.
post-minimalism lamassus
and one night we quarrelled over how to cook sausages
In the morning driving to town we hardly spoke
I left her hitch-hiking on the highway to Prince Albert
and I guess I was wrong about those sausages
There are youthful amethyst encounters
in the river's ghostly intensity
and after you've heeded them
many times
in water-places
where their voicelessness seems
related to thunder cracks
you think of them as "noisy buds"
There are tiny pink surprises
in the river's arctic cry
and after you've glimpsed them
numerous times
in water-places
where their voicelessness seems
related to river-rumbles
you think of them as "tumultuous flowerettes"
Autumn
in our thoughts of each other
and I muse upon
the way another man looked
at me as if I were the largest
least thing on this earthly sphere
my awareness hung like a great metallic lantern
suspended between stars
on a dark forest
and time spills itself over my fingers glimmering
Spring
in our thoughts of each other
and I hark back to
the way another person looked
at me as if I were the most
low thing on the globe
Autumn
in our thoughts of each other
and I look back on
the way another woman looked
at me as if I were the greatest
small thing on this earthly sphere