Mount Albion

Who left their love in Mount Albion
Where green fields cling now to low hills
While a summer rain falls softly
In the early afternoon?

Who left their love in Mount Albion
Lifeless between the soft-hipped hills
Beside the gray and seamed highway
Under each month’s silent moon?

To think of love in Mount Albion
Feels threadbare as an Island day
In April when the fields are gray
And too wet for the harrows.

Someone left love in Mount Albion
Wrapped in a blanket in the small hours.

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Gulf of Saint Lawrence, Early July

Look out on these scanty summer days
At the still Gulf in a pale blue haze.

Movement? That’s neither here nor there.
Night would arrive before you saw where

It all comes from: The stubborn push
Of the slow-circling moon. No rush

In its age-old compassing of you.
And none in that glittering star-strew

Quietly behind everything it does—
Which has little enough in the end
To do with ideas of because
We think we need to oppose or defend.

Look out at the Gulf in the blue haze
Deepening towards a night that stays.

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Peach Omelette

I’m writing this with my just-cleared plate between me and the keyboard. Because it was that good right after I invented it. It will be even better when I have fresh peaches and heavy cream available rather than the canned and 18% I used because they were there.

  • 3 eggs
    3 peach slices, optionally diced
    3-6 tbs cream
    pepper (I used coarse ground)
    cayenne pepper (or chili flakes, or siracha—or whatever hot ingredient you prefer)
    half a small onion, roughly chopped
    couple slices ham or bacon, diced
    3-6 tbs butter
    lemon or lime zest or juice, just a couple pinches or a tiny dash
    sugar or powdered sugar or maple syrup or whatever sweetener you prefer—it’s your omelette and your damn tastebuds
    2 skillets
    1 mixing bowl

If using bacon fry it first, leave fat in skillet and turn to low heat. When skillet has cooled, sweat onions (and peach slices if using fresh) in bacon fat (adding 1 or 2 tbs butter if needed.

If using ham place skillet on low heat, add 3 tbs butter and sweat onions (and peach slices if using fresh).

Put the other skillet on low heat, add 2-3 tbs of butter to and allow to melt slowly. If you find yourself wondering if you used enough butter, you didn’t—should coat the surface generously.

While the butter melts, beat all the remaining ingredients (except 2-3 tbs cream and the sweetener) together in the bowl. Do not beat to a completely uniform texture. Put into omelette skillet and allow to cook slowly until beginning to firm. It should slide easily in skillet when shaken gently by handle Add peaches, onions, and ham/bacon across center of omelette, fold gently (or slide out of pan onto plate and flip back into skillet with uncooked side down).

Plate when cooked to taste, pour on remaining cream and drizzle on your sweetener.

Eat, and praise me.

P.S. Don’t leave the empty skillet sitting on the low heat while you eat and write a blog post. Your place will get a bit smoggy.

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What Bird Unseen

I wake sometimes in the morning wondering
If age has quietly in the night erased
Another thing I once knew existed.

All day then I remain unsure if my gaze
Rests on anything I’ve seen before or if
I’ve only continued filling in blanks.

I try to imagine what flavours might have
Once begun as molecules thin in the air
Before consolidating on my tongue,

What bird unseen in a high place might have moved
Wistful configurations of air as notes
Through narrow passages of its warm throat

I can no longer hear. I wake wondering
If (or wishing) the memories I can’t bear
Stand so starkly because they’re freshly drawn

And if this moon I cling to on sleepless nights
Under green needles near the slow hourglasses
Wind and water shape daily from sandstone

Might never move at all without impetus
From impossible trees, improbable waves.
Oh where are the pines oh where is the sea?

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A Speculated April Sky

Blue April days
These crows thicken the sky.
The last thoughts of winter cluster
And cleave.

Blue April days
These crows thicken the sky.
Last thoughts of winter cluster
And cleave.

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Throwing Stones Into Still Water

You do not know before it happens
When the day will grow so silent
You can hear the slow creak of expansion
As your pores stretch and beads of sweat
Swell through to gleam upon your skin.

You walk alone on a green hillside,
A slow stretch of ankle tendons
Measuring the angle of slope. The sky
Above you is as blue as the vein
In your neck at dead of winter.

Below you a pond is a mirror
Set in the low marshlands before
The sea. Everything is reflected there.
Even the flat stone you will throw high
Enough to cut the devil’s throat.

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North Wind In Mid-March

I can smell it already on this wind
Scraping still at trees it spent all winter
Wearing thin—it carries from the distant
Dust and gas-filled gaps between the stars
The inky, rum-sweet scent of magnolia
We will stagger home reeking of in May.

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