Or, maybe, curtained holes in walls.
jerry can, sandy beach
when alcove comes to montreal.
Much like the movement of bodies of water, the overwhelming volume of experience and space leave us connected with the past, present and future.
with prying eyes
and fluttering hearts
uncle denis is a celebrity in a certain part of the world. his eccentric lifestyle and dangerous sense of thrills have earned him many an article in the local news. but there are many other stories ones that no one hears, ones that warm your heart.
this pool in his backyard is hidden, lying dormant like a childhood dream. the water so thick with tadpoles and frogs that it hums and croaks with life. a creation inspired by both the savage and myth.
arrival of the salted summer month
in this sweet summer
in this wind and wake
on this beaming bow
on this life to take
in the last warm month
you salt excess fish
you’re brown and restless
keen to any wish
it’s the sought out height
oh the hearts thunder
you capture your light
for winter’s plunder
every season is Junk’s favorite season, but when the sun is shining in Alcove , Junk is particularly alluring.
magpies crash, from glinting metal escaping through patches of rust,
Junk cars arrive unannounced in the night to huddle with each other,
farm tools breach former roles to appease the whims of
my heart, your junk
and then across the farm point bridge.
Frankie lays watch on an eerie untouched hill
each rusting souvenir, chest forward, head strong,
remains unmovable, proud and lost, in Alcove.
Discovered in the attic of a grandfather house.
it has slowly decomposed allowing the feather to reveal
the fleshy straw of its innards, much like a vulture.
A few wires cage its fragility though it is paraded about town in the passenger seat of a car.
I had been warned not to look into its eyes; I dared and I saw their glassy truth.