to a shoreline far up-island:
a black bear sleeps in the tall grass;
a grey haired woman wears a leather coat
follows wolves into the trees.
Lately I've seen the water rise
and Pessoa standing in the ebb tide.
I want every name to be abandoned.
I want our ankles to crack under us.
I never saw the front of the shaman's
head who led us to the clearing:
Totem; pale body in the sunlight
paint once pollen all gone (thinned
by rain in the April storms); A ghost
is quietly at the end of the trail.
Weather, weather, all altruism aside
I grew older than you then died
and now I am here haunting you.
The front lawn was last cut
by a neighbour, tired of looking at it.
The ceiling will cave in at the end
of the decade. By that time I will
have forgotten how to settle dust
by watching it fall. I will be shooting
owls from the side of a logging road
lit up in high beams and moonlight.
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