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)