, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

ImageA vision

            April 11/2013   for Chris of course

[& what’s amazing is that AFTER I wrote this poem I read these lines from Louise Cotnoir: “There, the dead travel under the birds’ breasts”]



The barge being pulled up the Fraser is heavy

With dead trees.


This what I see on your anniversary morning.

A common act, yes


But what happens next isn’t.

First on one wet length, a gull lands, then another,


White as pain or happiness or nothing,

Crows too, a few starlings, and before the tug draws


The sight past my seeing there is flight gathered there

Not death, all upon the limbs


That lie inert are birds, wings folded over loss

As if the barge being dragged up the river


Is now simply an island

And the birds are forgiving or angry or nothing


As they settle upon the stacks of trunks

And ride in beauty upon the waters.