Читать книгу Asbestos Heights - David McGimpsey - Страница 19

Yarrow

There’s the country somewhere outside the car.

The country where the elm fucks the maple

and the elm broods as if auditioning

for a new PBS miniseries.

There’s a poetry where trees don’t have sex,

when the yarrow observed from a car seat

can stand in, plain image, plain symbol,

and not be you observing me as overweight.

Outside, as the yarrow whips by, are towns

where Canadians happily live their lives,

unperturbed by who was excluded

from the Can Lit? Can Do! anthology.

Inside, the steady beat of country songs,

coffee with diet hazelnut creamer.

Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything

about the maple who gets so leafy.