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Featured Poet: M Sarki
North Ontario
She asked if I
wanted her to
do it. Many
came to mind.
There were balls
with pins and
dowels. Fancy
chimes. Hungry
children in the
hall complicating
matters. And I,
there, afraid
of my wife.
May the Clock of Our Love Burn
In the end
there are no rules.
Only the fire,
and the silence
at high noon.
Word In, Word Out
First comes
pull.
Then play.
It is very hard
work by the end
of the day.
Spring of Our Initiatives
It was in
the remains
we sought
our family.
A rebellion
developing
personality.
Wreckage
sad as leaving.
The disposition
for disrupting
the new day.
Above the Plankton
It was climbing
onto Noah. A
fontanel of dew
at the stern of
his neck. The
moment beyond
reckoning.
Another tote
on board.
The American Parade
Unhappily
the spectator
collapsed into
the faces, not
as a perfume to
please, but as the
dreadful body
unsupported as
base, frantic in
its sinking, whose
arms convey a
windmill, fabled
and too late.
The Invasion of Finland
The ending was
saddened by
the look
on a face
flush with
memory.
Saturated with
the entanglements
of its time.
A life fully
immersed in
living.
The moving parts
in their final
decline.
Four in the Morning
She is lost in
the apparatus.
But the strange
can get beyond
a performance.
And live
within that
slippery grip.
It is obscene,
this giddiness,
the naked distance
between clothes.
In a Garden of Comestibles
He keeps it handy,
his fauvette posaune,
for backing into
the language.
And for coaxing
to come
her saxifrage.
And to furdle
as wits do.
This wongah
machine
of theirs.
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