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Should lanterns shine, the holy face,
Caught in an octagon of unaccustomed light,
Would wither up, an any boy of love
In the empty classroom, at sunrise, a girl
sits on the floor, staring at a glockenspiel.
She’s shredding the cuticles on her left hand
Let’s say the fix was in. Let’s say history,
Being human and thus short on ideas,
Made change from an old bag of tricks. Say this
Your best friend falls in love
and her brain turns to water.
You can watch her lips move,
Rain at Muchalat, rain at Sooke,
And rain, they say, from Yale to Skeena,
And the skid-roads blind, and never a look
He wants to be
a brutal old man,
an aggressive old man,
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
More than a storey high and twice that long,
it looks igneous, the Buhler Versatile 2360,
possessed of the ecology of some hellacious
Down from the purple mist of trees on the mountain,
lurching through forests of white spruce and cedar,
stumbling through tamarack swamps…
His Grace! impossible! what dead!
Of old age too, and in his bed!
And could that mighty warrior fall?
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man’s ingratitude;
Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,
Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;
He wept that he was ever born,
Out through the fields and the woods
And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view