a boat
the leeward lives in Innisfree.

Six women marching
through a park,
six lanterns at rest
six cauldrons to
six walking abreast.

In the still of the morning
I'd hazard a guess
there's a little less.

TWILLINGATE

We all end up badly and
it's not the season nor the salt
rather, I suspect but type of gherkin used.

We all end, badly, at least
the more modest of us do.
the old salts they dine on
limericks anyways.

We all end up, sadly, the distances
and the wiles only last up,
sideways, and barely with
the edge-ways of a smile.

Some of us, sadly,
limit our losses
call off the posse
quit deals, the
quicksilver steals.

Some of us, gladly,
surrender or catch
a slow boat to Twillingate,
if not willingly,
at least painstakingly.

BRAVURA

Memory as embankment,
a mudslide at High Tide
with shades up...
my avocado green brethren
pleasures the soil.

Memory as enchantment
a Belle at a Soiree,
pureed, Gaston at a Dinner Party.

Napanee suggests sympathy,
a serendipity...
as water winders its way
to clay in a moonlight
turn of the bottle,
I shall find a way.
that's ironclad.

WHISKY GIRL

I like'em ragged round the rim,
rough drawn at dawn
panting at the edge,
belly-button ring
tattooed naval
drinking silk panties shooters,
not much in between
if you know
What I mean

HIGH FREQUENCY DRAW (HIGH ALERT)

Les bougies sur les tombeaux
(The candles on the graves)
antilles dread locks ...
french chocolate it is not.

RED FOX (RED HORSE LAKE)

A magnificent Red Devil
splayed out in his tracks;
this tumultuous soul, baron of the backwoods
with his provenance unknown ...
this compromise to individuality
abandons him to chorome death
under a canopy-canape dream-coated rock dome.

Trepanned, empire of trees, dark matter
& a castle of leaves,
a fish-hawk for a tomahawk
in his thermo-cline eyes ...
dithyrambic young osprey in the offing,
candelabra under stars.

Going inland for freshwater prawns,
sandalwood and tortoiseshells
finding bewitchment amid moving cars.

WHEN I WAS A MUCH YOUNGER MAN

When I was a much younger man,
my spiritual homeland was a scrub-mile of bush with thicket
leaves the size of your palms.

Saucer-size holes of white air enveloped the edge of trees
and