My uncle Walter still cannot believe he’s dead.
In those times he requires companionship, sitting
by the tilted world comprised of a pastiche, of lives.
The prairie near Winnipeg, howling hollows of
Buffalo; open coal pits above which my father abides
among train carriages at the ready: preparing
to watch the small television propped in the sky
canvas, against the backdrop of a playground,
laundry hung like kites across the horizon stop sign.
A little bit of home goes a long way in this hell,
or purgatory you must alter to the habitable says
the beautiful blue girl: her body abandoning
the battleground, the
absent atmosphere for which oxygen is a bribe.
©All Rights Reserved
- from forthcoming Phantoms Of The Northern Forests
my books on Amazon https://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM/
“An inspired set of poems. Dean gets to the essence of a subject.”
NEW BOOKS COMING SOON
SHADOW BOXING THE INFINITE
THE NEW POETRY HOTEL
STEEL BUTTERFLIES
and
PHANTOMS OF THE NORTHERN FORESTS