There is maybe the relenting, the crystalline gaze. Maybe the relenting. Door frame.
Sudden realization of guide status. Stipulated by the proffered dish.
To point the way to the bank, from the bow, a destiny laid out like a scrim of mist.
Words might be useful. Past evidence that they can be. So: the right words then.
I would subsequently become as Gertrud w/ her hearth. But more elated. I would like to imagine.
Passion should not depend on the making fit of the parts that we would have had fit.
Youth. Shudder. I would take it and hold it up and try to sing. A dirge. A flagrant elegy.
Banjo funeral. Two banjos. His and hers. No jangling platitudes. Hoarfrost and mystic shine.
Winter is my labial deposit. Rest me in the ember, amidst dying logs, sated.
I want to show a woman to a destiny in which I have no part. I might feel good about it.
I want to watch from an Irish seaside cliff. There might be binoculars. Ha. God, what a fool.
So permafrost. All the particulars. I would offer myself up to solitude and the right kind of work.
Have had done. I should say have had done. Such pleasure in the dust and doings, alone.
September. 2016. Calgary
