the new phoenix

not a state of mind, no,
a city more tangible than any,
the personification of concrete
though no more alive

wait for the floodwaters to rise
the Fraser bloated and hungrier still
the feathers of Richmond and poor, flightless Surrey
wedged in its glistening teeth
(like sand in your toes on the drive home from the beach)

the sediment, ghost buildings
will hold meaning, yes,
will live on as ideas,
but in the hills
- the temperature three degrees closer to tolerable -
Phoenix will have arrived in their Winnebagos

(weren’t the Winnebagos an Indian tribe?
i don’t remember anymore)

they’ll cut the engines and pour on the sunscreen
hunt exotic game
clear layers of moss and solum
hold cookouts right there on the Cascadian granite
pick wild grapes and stain their feet purple
raise their glasses in a boisterous salute
to the natives who paved the way.

from the Spring 2007 issue of Vancouver Review


liam said...

hey neat you appear in the same issue as garry morse!

rob taylor said...

yeah...some company...but still the one lonely poem...