Lift

August 4, 2018

To stand with mind akimbo where the wind riffles the ridge. Slow, slow jazz: it must begin before the instrument with bones dreaming themselves hollow and the dusk rising in them like a sloth ascending. Moon, night after night rehearsing shades of pause and spill, sifting into reed beds, silvering the fine hairs on your arms, making rhythm out of light and nothing, making months. What have I ever made of life or it of me, all I ever asked for was to be remembered constantly by everything I ever touched.

Don Mckay
From: Lift
Camber: Selected Poems (McClelland & Stewart Ltd, 2004)

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: