I love this sleepy little town. With churches and art collectors. The place where hippies go to die.
I love this wilderness town carved out of rock by a river. Where lovers leaped and ended the chase. My feet happy anthropologists on the same Precambrian. Soaking in river sparkle water rushing with ease. Tall pines bare roots cling to the gorge walls magnetically.
I love this secret town where my son learned lessons and recovered from addiction. Where his friend clean a year was struck by a truck on the long weekend. He - the last to see him.
I love this sleepy wilderness secret town. Remember to bury me in this ground.
YOU ARE READING
north on 50 - canadian interior poems
Poetryas long as we live we create and break relations with fantastic efficiency. when attachments prove inconvenient, its not always the other that agrees. its the will changing people, places and things. answers in the unanswered. a pregnant pause.
