A Wind Near Dewdney, British Columbia1
The mountains were draped in a feldspar-ghost-loneliness.
He remembers now, there was a wind and the snow
looked empty of furniture, something they used to call
not-right. There was a broken-hungry voice in the barn,
there was a new world parasite, the echo of early onset materialism,
on its way to the city. To think he could have stopped it there, when it
was just a friend of a friend, harmless really. How it made him laugh
in those days. Is it too late? He’s heard the rumours, about the ghoul
of cold handshakes, the rot hiding in the partition walls
of government buildings, about the music these days,
that was once the ghoul of November 12th, the prisoner
of victory, the prisoner of November 12th. And he is left here
as the long face of the alien of nothingness, again, he’s walking
from the woods to field. As if that was safe.