for Wayde Compton,
An uneasy mist
rises from this calligraphy of recollection
Mina Loy, The Lost Lunar Baedecker: Poems
What is this, beauty. Failed attempts at, something. Stated aims, a viaduct. Specific questions, abandoned. Linger. Exploding at the bedrock, crust. Backwash, a church. A Union, Prior. Streets. A common grave. Or is it, grace.
Impossibilities, suffer. Excised, but not divide, subtract. A family path of clothespins, buttons.
You aren't front lawn, sophisticate. Subsets claim. A learning made of kitchens, home. A Georgian demolition, sweep. A lack of rumoured slums. Estate of longing, else. State, desired looks. Wood sliced into beam, a streetscape. What aren't we seeing.
If less abstracted, tell me. A community suffers, scattered. Brow to leaning brow.
Attempts are not, but statements. Lone survivor, speaks dead language. Restorations. Memory, buffers. Erodes into allotted land. A formless quilt, afforded. Question, its effects.
Mortgage is, but this. Your murdered laughter.
What are we, looking? The look of elsewhere, less. All that glitters. Little controversies, pass the stupid buck. Strathcona is, a name. The trees for city, same. The house but not, paved over. Why did you, did? Could further, else. A glaze.
Of, the shores. What oxidized. Go. Here, not only. Long, into the east.