HALIBUT

that school teacher face of hers again but elderly now … I sit in my pew wondering what she knows Anne Curran

in the name

And to write of the dead  Is also a game, which grows heavy With what’s coming. Tomas Tranströmer / Don Coles

It still makes me laugh when I said I was quoting Milton Acorn who’s a Canadian poet and your shot me the sharpest look I ever saw come out of you. What kind of blame fool do you think I am. I know who Acorn is. Only later did mom say you wrote poetry when you two met and that you’d burned it all, like you did with your old notebooks and records. What was it with you and destroying? Mom did it too. Your desk looks just the same except all the coil ring notebooks she tore out every piece of your handwriting. You approve don’t you? Well, I don’t but it’s too late to fix. Your old school books are safe. Mom will hardly let me look at them but she thinks they’re antiques and may be worth something some day. I say they’re worth something now.     neem wood     brush mirror beauty set     dust

Two tiny golden ratios, two snails merge.   If the puffed-up bird steps into the scene, it’s as the honoured guest, love’s sumo self. Medrie Purdham