:::::fog is coming:::::
head frayed curtain on a windy day
the little lantern got its door closed.
The blue returned to the alcove and the woman closed the door behind them. You remembered your bag this time so you pick it up and fall like an ocean back into time. The first car stops. It goes where you go. The talk is nice. The yellow glow is steady. Neat. Tidy.
the concept of the golden
age one finds
Here on the coffeehouse patio with caffeine and a copy of Et in Arcadia ego, this soft happy square banked by verdant yew, this small eddy in the day’s morning rush, poisonous red berries, their small round mouths unclenched from stems have dropped from the lip of the world to its chin
Cars river and the skytrain rushes wind. The vacuums over at the detailing station, a herd of bovine-bellows. Car horns : cow bells.
cruise ship shakes
the sky with its leaving
Black potted flowers tumble the hovering blue, the floral eye pregnant with yellow and orange. The high gloss of ivy barks at every passing moment.
What work has there ever been but perception?
The day goes by.
SUNDOWN AND THE STILL CLAPPER
our daily bread
around the coffeehouse
corner and down
into the green shadowed alley,
from these vast caverns her living
an egg cracking
tomorrow into the pan
querying the relationship between the world and linguistic entities
In the turbulent edges of fast moving traffic
a chickadee tumbling under air’s whirl
the window open, page clipped by the wind and creased, books—feathered text, spine pressed against the steering wheel
under the still verdant barberry, between the pulled-over car and the slope down to the river, a rabbit tail flicks in muscular flight
blut blut blut of traffic streaming past, up to speed since the last light turning green, hand on the page, finger on poetry wars, marking without a pencil Common Author’s splut splut splut of dismay
have to google that later—in the tree-break down-trail a deer startles
slipping through the reader’s reputed lack of pedantries, the gothic mind of a Common Author: loyalties to worlds, words and their pleasures, ideologies of certainty
forest’s scars, the tissue of its past, wooden platform peeping over river’s traffic, and feet, the overlook, chasms through rock and wood, histories carried by water to the downstream
& deer reading the state of the grasses
doppio espresso in a little paper cup, sweet and bitter by preference, the book spine up on the dash,
the chickadee recovered and chik-a-dee-dee-dee-mapping the depths in a pre-flight check
another car winging by, ruffling time’s feathers, engine in a flurry, the light
just turning yellow, the front passenger is reading a big yellow paperback
green leaved insight, and under the trees ochre shadows, the page, open again, takes on each, one the left, olivine light of sinister, another, the adroit and golden phrase
down at the river the stream-side of the white-tail glimmers like an ink and watercolour painting; the forest-side buckskin—the way a Rodin makes shadows solid
a reader both hands on the book, buffeted, but holding course
the turbulent renewal of requisite thinking