The Fraser

August 12, 2010 at 4:29 pm (A Catalogue of the Lost, Bridges, Love is Crucial, Poems)

love can’t survive here, but there

u              u
c       m     l       s                      u
u                      c    l  o      d   s

above them:
are the bridges and

on the surface: tugboats Royal City Motel matches log rafts popped balloon corpses
torn  letters    (see: pieces there and here)   f  l o a t i n g   f  l  o a t i n g
words smearing as they disintegrate and
disappear

below
sinking  sludge

:  bones    planks   hubcaps    socks    empties    fish
coliforms       river weed        plankton     saw chips
empty oil cans  ditch eels  hospital gowns  high heels  reflected clouds  open eyes

a handsaw

a settled grudge

(unidentified)

and sinking further downward
covered in silt, floating river dust
: a rotting church organ                       bicycle parts                car bodies mangled with rust

three lawn darts    a knuckleboom loader   a crown royal bag filled with silver
musical instruments     [b flat]                 a fisher’s throwback    a bag of cats

antiques          a paperback of robert’s rules   a locked safety deposit box     green jewels
the bottom keeps shifting, pulling its un-treasure
further down, further south with its stream

pebbles                        skeleton keys              a lost dream

…. all of these secrets, once detected, pull you in and

D

O

W

N …

until even we, even lovers, sink and

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Walking Home from School in a Sympathetic Winter Scene

February 28, 2009 at 12:20 am (A Catalogue of the Lost, Poems, Small Observations, The 90s)

The low clouds muffle the sound of snow
about to fall and land
on this ground already covered

I circle the frozen lake alone

If you were here
(the dead always know more than the living)
we could hear what no one else
has ever heard in this muted silence –
the crystalized molecules rapidly
skating into each other
just above my head

I’m sure I can hear
the snow about to fall:
it’s the sound of a child’s mobile
made of a hundred small icicles
or a seamstress’s wind chime
strung with twenty tiny needles

I can hear all this in my head
as I walk home alone
in this stone deaf February afternoon

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