the
carver You
have a nice bum, he said,
and promised to carve
me a baby out of ebony,
a feather
and a baby to hang down
together. I hold my own
knife, however,
and odd
feathers hover, waiting
for glue - dusty on the
dashboard,
squashed
in my pack, or pocketed
singly. You
don't really want to be a bird,
he said, and I feel the tug
on flight
feathers blood-tied
in place of nails, I
flex my
fingers, tip downwards, catch
a little bit of the evening. Black
shavings curl from the
cut, I say, the heart
of a baby, the no-words
place
between doors out
and doors in. I
might not be staying. Contact
Oiseau: General
Delivery, Argenta, BC, Canada, V0G 1B0
The art on this page is a detail from
the single copy book "To Bind a Villanelle," monoprint, 2005, nfs | turning
pages: on
acceptance on
Faithful and Howe quicksand song
of the misdressed this
spring's channels to
bind a villanelle disconnect |
