Friday, April 20, 2007


In Doubt a Rose Is a Grotesque Thing

The property line
extends to the
shore line
a dead otter
fish buoys
and driftwood.

I meant nothing by this remark.

In the interest of easing
erotic life.
Fur and velvet.

In the attic
a scene of undressing
that describes the patient’s life
in the language of flowers.
This was the first assertion
of her still uninhibited animosity.

With an illusion to a gift or contagion.

As you know
this is the first time
I have regretted
meeting famous personalities
miles from home.

But instead I have chosen
to investigate cadavers
perhaps a hunting scene.

Because I was reared in a hothouse
a final euphemism:
The illusion did not last.

For more than a week
failing the obvious
I was fed up with memories.

This is much more than scenery.

In a waiting room
where a picture on a wall
could spell revenge.

If I may suppose
the scene of the kiss
took place in this way.
But it was not until
the incident by the lake
that we were encouraged
and forced to make confessions.

The younger of the two was the stranger.

In a seemingly endless, paranoid view
of events, I watched from a room I
knew too well on a slender
riotous island.

With his life and mind under daily dissection.

My libidinal compliment
just as one
might refer to
inner landscape.

She’d come east in a fashion
that rather took your breath away.
Aspiring to be
the originator of moments.

There is no need for discretion.
A tremendous attraction.
An elegant adversity.

I am a natural runner.

As if a rock hit you
several times
on the head.

Familiar as it may be.

A national betrayal.
A snap of cold weather.
A hard-luck story.
Hailed with a passion.


Vancouver poet,
cultural critic &
visual arts curator
Nancy Shaw
died last week


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