It is 2010, just after the leak.
Am I here that I am reduced
located inside the backspace &
I need your trout mask. You will find
me south of the snow drift, where
the trees collect hoarfrost especially
at night, where wind and cold rub
the edges. We burn memories to shape
one another; to stay the icefall that
it not shatter toe slope wells. We are
running out of shamanic time, pitch fork
and axe. Rattles stuffed in the willow
bowed roof and whistle lies wet with no
breath. We should be singing to one another,
grease and cedar. We should be fire,
rock and steam. We should be still,
or at least, bearing pain. Be in the
fourth round of thanks. The light
invisible except to the elder. We
will be whited out. Early tailings of
nothing behind the fence. One howls, screams.
No, we must first be fire. Be kindling. Be wood
- See: Writings Poetry
:: note :: ... an evening at Wanuskawin ... ramblings, riff raff ...