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Gavin by bobbette emera
The edge of that other square cut from the right
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
XI.
Franklin's Last Voyage
And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring
Dismal, endless plain?
How bittersweet
it is, on winter's night,
Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet painted
To follow in the path of their brief
blossoming
This drizzling three-day January thaw,
there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....
Sits at
the limit of a kind of world
Shadows keep piling up as surfaces
their bellies, they're out cold, instantaneously
Appear
to lift up from the lake;
It is as though I were at a second threshold.
Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who stand
Your
red cheeks radiant against the wind,
Snow haze gleams like sand.
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