Syn­gen, he was

Prairie Fire - - PATRICK FRIESEN -

syn­gen, he was, o’con­nell leap­ing from the bath,

and daun­cen naked in the kitchen, to work out

his first poem, and the last, at the ta­ble, among

the crumbs and stains, this hap­pens once only,

him find­ing a sound, his sound­ing, a pool of wa­ter

at his feet, sin­gen like a frog all night, a bear­ing

for the lost, for him­self, his song of di­vine mur­der,

the beg­gar’s bruise, his song of the in­side light,

he did sing it, in win­nipeg, gruff in his throat,

afraid and thirsty, in­fin­ity clos­ing in, run­ning

fin­gers through his bristling hair, I can sleep,

he said.

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