Thereafter the northern plains would be cattle country.
I had paid off my younger self speaking of the highly contaminated water.
The dust was slaloming through the postmodern footnotes.
The sandhill cranes etc had refused treatment.
A host country manipulated the climate to guarantee good vibes to visiting qualms.
Given that the leaked materials nearly trampling me continued to slow, I watched
the footage of passengers huddling on the wings of the floating aircraft, just so
I could be made serious by love and choreography.
There was a part of me that felt that if I got into a cab that said wicked,
it would take me to hell. Pretty much
the rest of that day a crane-claw opened and closed.
The horsemen chirped into the mouths of artificially whitening clouds.
The wind in this, that once felt too private, read from cue cards.
I was double-hearing the suicides, who never leave the stage, so as not to sleep.
Maybe Dante’s goddamn mike was open—
Melanie Siebert‘s first collection, Deepwater Vee (M&S), was a finalist for Canada’s Governor General’s Literary Award for poetry. In 2013, she was a writer-in-residence at the Pierre Berton House.
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