301 Moved Permanently

301 Moved Permanently



Quick sketch of red cedars
brushed with milkweed that hangs
around like a town.
Black-toothed tumbledowns beside
twist-your-arm gates
hedging bets on this week’s lotto.

There’s a boy you used to know
who will stay a boy.
Years later, you meet
outside of the service centre.
The line between you is short,
swift, gasoline-stiff.

A flashlight walks
each thick-waisted night;
asks if there’s any trouble.

You can’t tell the sumac from the nettle.
The mirror is foxed.
The steers break out and rush
back in. Voices throttle and spin, fall
behind the seat where they spoil
as you watch.

And though you are too tired to suppose-so,
suppose the youngest daughter had loved
you all along. Suppose you were ready
for a cough and cleared
your throat.

Comments are closed.