Pencil Renditions of the Troubadour

I’m feeling better.

Two days ago I lay

recuperating in a latent way.

Cranes adorn the rooftops—

twisting in their fetters—

of buildings in the ground and in the grey.

Here is the sting:

In the open arm that reaches

through an open flame to kill the leeches.

All across the sidewalk,

in the sunlight, writhing

like a twig in fire, darkness screeches.

Daylight dwindles

by the hour, sinking

below the waistline of horizon’s god-king.

Every mountain’s peak—

each tree—is kindled

by that lord, unnamed, who waits there, thinking.

Still, beyond his vision,

past its very ends, there croons

the calm, reservèd man who is the moon.

He walks with legs of twilight,

in the night’s derision,

promising the sky he’ll be there soon.

I am chasing pictures

tonight: Pencil renditions of

the world at large against the world above.

There is no road, no

single word, no scripture.

At length, I’ll come to know a place I’ll love.


West Vancouver