Poetry » rob mclennan »

1.

Not, unlike the kitchen,

we originate. A central
point, a

hub.

2.

Laptops abound.

A sunlit mile,
turret-speed, these

shadows lesson.

3.

Speculation, knives
the furthest issue.

This
is where we live,

and share, our common
blended patterns.

Fork, a slender branch. The evening thickens, sauce
transmuting stone. Irregular reach. This architecture
history, tell me what you know. Retains. What you don’t,
you can’t say. The author, blended silence. Summit,
change of heart. Maps, obsolete. Long harmless,
then, old Carleton County. For the birds, we listen,
songs to tap. Your raven hair, dark porcelain.

1.

Meticulous. Behind wilderness,
to sketch out birds. Would rather

be a
part.

2.

Photograph: a line of chalk, of
sand. A windy beach.

3.

Slips her foot in cool surf,

startled,

laughing, chilled
and disappointed. Accident

of leather shoe, white sock.

1.

I have but a singular
expression, since

the whole of winter: spring.

Addresses now, addressed,
and I can’t remember

anything that came before.

2.

My love a kindness, liar,
persevere. Alone in the bedroom,

we fishhook stars, an emery
board of chance. Configure: we

would know you thus by pantomime.
Disclosed,

for business, yet another season.