You say lever. I incline. The front step
Water on the frozen lake.
Upside-down, a re-imagined landscape.
Wonders, the difference.
Rosebush, such pitiable self. Might mend,
might actually pick up, once
a foot touched down.
Thorns, with predictable outcome. Curled forks
damp among the fiddleheads.
A terrible, lifting burden. Today, your name
translates to wheat, sundog
and homesick. You speak it, spin
To translate yellow, the lowest
part of leaf.
Born in Ottawa, Canada’s glorious
capital city, rob mclennan currently lives in Ottawa. The author of more than twenty trade books of poetry, fiction and non-fiction, his most recent titles are the poetry collections Songs for little sleep, (Obvious Epiphanies,2012), grief notes: (BlazeVOX [books], 2012), A (short) history of l. (BuschekBooks, 2011), Glengarry (Talonbooks, 2011) and kate street (Moira, 2011), and a
second novel, missing persons (2009). An editor and publisher, he runs above/ground
press, Chaudiere Books (with Jennifer Mulligan), The
Garneau Review, seventeen seconds: a journal of poetry and poetics and the Ottawa poetry pdf annual ottawater. He spent the 2007-8 academic year in Edmonton as
writer-in-residence at the University of Alberta, and regularly posts
reviews, essays, interviews and other notices at robmclennan.blogspot.com
Archived at http://lit.konundrum.com/poetry/mclennanr_poems.php
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