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people arrived from portugal. people arrived from africa. people arrived from
india. people arrived from england. people arrived from china. people
(for the Chinese maroons, British Columbia, 1999–2001)
if you arrive in the belly of a rusting imagination, there are grounds to
outlaw you. but Canada is a remix B-side chorus in the globalization
Praise the rain, the seagull dive
The curl of plant, the raven talk-
Praise the hurt, the house slack
Who is this black coat and tie?
Christian severity etched in the lines
he draws from his mouth. Clearly a noble man
who believes in work and mission. See
how he rises from the red velvet chair,
Dear Regret, my leaning this morning, my leather foot, want of
…
The trick to building houses was making sure
they didn’t taste good. The ocean’s culinary taste
was growing more sophisticated and occasionally
What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked
down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking
at the full moon.
Calved from a glacier near Godhaven coast,
It left the fiord for the sea — a host
Of white flotillas gathering in its wake,
Mornings
before the sun’s liquid
spilled gradually, flooding
Wild Nights — Wild Nights!
Were I with thee
Wild Nights should be
Sent to the ice after white coats,
rough outfit slung on coiled rope belts,
they stooped to the slaughter: gaffed pups,
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicéan barks of yore,
That gently, o’er a perfumed sea,
I lift the Lord on high,
Under the murmuring hemlock boughs, and see
The small birds of the forest lingering by
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
Often beneath the wave, wide from this ledge
The dice of drowned men’s bones he saw bequeath
An embassy. Their numbers as he watched,
I am — yet what I am none cares or knows;
My friends forsake me like a memory lost:
I am the self-consumer of my woes —
A boat, beneath a sunny sky,
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July —
