I was always turning around to see
who was behind  me
and there in lies the danger
and so the past holds me in its arms...

...the tip of your cigarette glows in the dark.
(the light without a flame)

you are sitting in a chair.
I m sitting in a chair.
we don't speak.

that is my everlasting memory of you.

the fire had taken flight.

you bought books and never read them.
you always used too much perfume.

I had no time for you, lonesome dove.
my heart of sand,
but thunder now follows my heart,
with the perfume of things lost.

in the meadows above treeline
the wildflowers are in bloom
turning time into sunshine:
the indian paintbrush, green orchid,
yellow columbine, heart-leafed arnica

and climbing through the rain into sunshine
our shadows stretched across a cloud

and my love's surprise
echoes across the mountain side
to the bow river
and snow-covered mountain tops.

it is an angel's song, gentle and sweet
where the wildflowers bloom
and our hearts are always free.

Alberta.

sleepdrunk and riddled
with the thing between
the blinks;

                  boneneedled,
it knits me some axonic
skiprope fuckyou prize.

Talking to Potato Chips
(I like this one!)

How I Lost My Virginity, page 653.
(some photos)

Standing on a Concave Gardening Chair
to Change a Light Bulb on the Porch

                     or

Concussions Made Easy