Saudade

there is a recording

of the last Kaua’i ‘ō ‘ō bird

calling to another bird

who no longer exists

born to crave another

made to want that unity

dying with a song on your tongue

because you are alone

no face to find in a fleeting crowd

no future

I think too of how it must have felt

to record that

to capture the sound of infinite longing

of wanting what cannot ever be

and then to catalog it

as a thing we destroyed

did the cataloger weep

like I do now

as they labeled the recording

understanding how much

we have yet to

lose?

(July 2023)

If you really want to exercise your tearducts, here’s the same story but in Brazilian funk-tinged EDM.  No, seriously.

Four poems about fire: #3

a hand holding up a white-framed instant photo. The photo is either undeveloped or a picture of a blank white surface

a city on a hill

a burning branch

a window shattered by a thrown brick

a layer of neural tissue two millimetres thick

a series of choices which, when stood beside each other, can only be seen as inevitable

a map with a white space in the middle

a feather you found on your windshield from a bird that was classed as extinct

a promise that no one expects you to keep

(2023)

Four poems about fire: #1

the night sky lit yellow and orange by a forest fire. in the foreground, smoke rises from a blue valley.

the sky is full of Alberta

that stalwart cloak of green

that DEW line shielding the eastern provinces from the

aerial assault of off-gassed methane

igniting in one long curving line and taking with it our

hopes for a safe and happy summer

as the sweetgrass dreams of grassy inland oceans

are buried by the silty ruins of the last great extinction

Travelling

an aerial photo of a dramatically cloudy sky at sunset hazily overlaid by a drone-taken photo of a stark white iceberg edged with green

I practice a form of time travel called insomnia

or maybe it practices me

a liminal state

awake but wrongly

the morning uninevitable

though it is always morning somewhere

what is a morning but the night’s fist unclenching

present always but not noticed until it strikes

rattling your old bones

the earth dragged onward

spiraling through all that night

that fist

opening again and again

and closing

and us

raked by cosmic winds

barely clinging 

all our ambitions a smear on glass

a concrescence of matter

a chance

I practice a form of time travel called insomnia

or maybe it practices me

The Truth About Clouds

there’s no such thing as clouds she said

I asked her to explain

she said

the clouds are just a metaphor

if you touch them

they aren’t there

dissolved by our attention

like particles avoiding a dark plate

suspended in ten thousand tons of water

depending on which technician lifts the lid

huge somethings made of nothing

the weight of mountains

mist fading from your grasp

before you even close your hand

a metaphor, she said

for water’s longing for the sea

(2022)