It was about dwindling
populations and the shape
of snow. Everywhere
second thoughts were washing
up on everyone’s eyes.
I’ve never been there,
don’t know the art of nets
or the safety of lists.
So, for me, it was the names
that broke over the little boat
of paper first, that caught me
casting them off my tongue
like homemade lures.
And there was more--
brownie, black and glacier bear
had begun looking for other
bedding, the darkness of caves
no longer dark enough.
Yet, most frightening
was the story of the stories,
how they’ve been leaving
drops of blood behind--
what was haunted, sacred or both
had been tracked and tagged,
secrets converted to proof.
So, I say “salmon, hooligan and dolly vardon!”
here somewhere in the east where nothing
bigger than a page has fallen off in years--
I hope the urge to go upstream
outlives you, that you name something
after yourself before you leave.
Perhaps a cloud.
