Glass Is Not Air

Vast-intimate Saskatchewan

tremors. A prairie spring

of aureate sound, sootswept

hatchwork in a drawstring lap

like a restless cat. These soft songs,

I watch the stove, climb inside.

Foxwarren & the sorrow gives gentler

now, after 14 hours sleep.

Do I know the artichoke?

I seem to disremember much.

Thoughts subdue the windows

like determined bluejays.

The dog gathers their broken necks

up in his maw, wades

through the yard of drunken fescue.

He may as well be laying

to rest this protean year; a sundrenched

tumulus of undigested bone.