In flip flops and jeans he calls up the pathos of a rainy Sunday afternoon, cars passing, the river muttering. He is thin as a scarecrow and missing teeth. At his feet, a complicated score that lies, staring up at the sky. CLICK TO LISTEN TO THE RECORDING
Pad out to the fire, listen for birds and the distant sound of trains, of traffic like water. Pause. Delight in the chives and other things hard to kill. CLICK TO LISTEN TO THE RECORDING
They are mad syncopation, feet hungry for every last bubble. CLICK TO LISTEN TO THE RECORDING
You’re wrong, of course. A wave is something, tumbling us against the rocks until we are light and silver and sculpted as wood. Breathe. And watch the air take flight. (My respectful response to Lesley Wheeler, whose poem “The Sea Does Not Exist” appeared in The Malahat Review 190 (Spring 20150) p. 10,…
The train passes and I kneel to touch the creaking iron. Expecting heat, expecting flattened pennies, my hand — rests. There are only locusts left, and the cool shushing of the river. CLICK TO LISTEN TO THE RECORDING
They scream — one clung to the side as the other boldly goes, ferocious feet and a creaking gangplank foundered on this prairie soil. CLICK TO LISTEN TO THE RECORDING
Apples put to bed, the children’s voice distant. Rattle-tap, rattle-tap go the busy bottles until the gas dies. Then silence. Lids popping, shutters snapping closed on another summer. CLICK TO LISTEN TO THE RECORDING
