On TV it looked like a high-speed photo of a milk drop
the dying leader of the Pana Wave laboratory cult smack in the
Acres of white cloth streamered his followers, who
circled him like crown jewels.
More and more I'm responding to stark white on black,
letting the morning frost finish for me.
Calgary is fur-lined in the sun. Although the cold front
will chop us down to minus, there are hints of a melt.
Dad's three-legged shadow bends blueness
on the salt grained snow.
His cane stabs seed grasses that hang in dead doublets over a pond.
No goddess-catching here on the sly, icy bends of Bowness Park.
We trudge over a footbridge, just as a skater passes under us.
And though he calls his legs moi-yoong, good-for-nothing,
it's still the best uncertainty that finds us here.
Beneath the white ice, light is reaching down
and allowing self-assemblage —
strong wind with minimum repose
for dragons about to wake.
Skin is ever folding inward, shaping new drives
that rise from nothing,
into the same white hourglass.
We start over again
Snow pours down from one bell to the other.
Weyman Chan, "monday thaw" from Noise from the Laundry (2nd ed.). Copyright © 2009 by Weyman Chan. Reprinted by permission of Talonbooks.
Source: Noise from the Laundry (2nd ed.) (Talonbooks, 2009)