I stand in the open window
holding the head of a black bear.
Maybe it's the weather, or something I ate,
but the draft is getting to me.
The bus to Ottawa is twenty minutes late,
and wet fur sticks to my stomach.
Funeral travel requires at least a carry-on.
Once, white pines flourished here.
Could this have something to do with poleshift? a cell phone call
interrupting dinner? twenty-two years?
Fungi springs up after the rains,
bright constellations of putrid life.
'Cross depressive cornfields I bury a spiritual death.
Red ochre, despite the season--the awkwardness of cousins. I forgot to bring flowers . . . Everyone's in black, why did I decide to wear plaid?
A telepathic plant brain can't tell the bears from the trees.
When tropical ferns from beyond the stars walk like men,
it will be time to draw the curtains and say,
"Enough is enough.
I can only drink so much beer before becoming hungry."
These words: Blood was the last of the liquids allowed into