rob mclennan

in the body of the text

dear muse,

its june, two thousand five

& i am wondering

missing montreal, now london
the way you talkt brazil

its getting overcast, & im thinking
of never leaving second nature

, or this very spot

the big scheme of things

the talk of all those western canadians
& french theatre types

dumbfounded by the thought of existence

how in these acts can i compose
or by the way compose myself

impartial to these acts themselves

the city that i live in never built
for all these feelings, hold their own


break out
of my own hibernations & break out

in spaces based on everything surrounding

how tell anyone anything

you can be competitive & still aligned

talk abt everything in the art gallery
broke in half & broken

i am winter, broken, disasters
i have still survived

as setbacks, tremours

back to where it started, my small world
easing slowly back

scraps of another brief summer if this were drama, the artifices
of my little camera

on the balcony, where you would
not let me

, for the sake of announcing

the neighbours, long
on silver

    a shaded
table light

as light turned left, it cooled
yr exposing olive


given the levity of the above

if these are, then, roses
stop to smell

, the moisture
of first-summer air


airless rooms
& breathable glare

& all the signs
that point

on the bike path,

of a squirrel

we would prefer to do our probing in colour

if every time you spoke

the sun falls wallace stevens down
next summer

i am this one

the guts of the enterprise are such
& such

this is the moment that remembers
earlier moments

& this is the one the follows

a foot away, you are as far away
as you have ever

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