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taiga

37 degrees in
the rainstorm, my remembering
lifts in plumes: steam off
the rainforest which is quick
to forget
the roil and roll,
the slide
down muddy banks
bumping knees and elbows
on all the roots we planted.

postnorthernism

i saw prince george,
on the destination display
of a greyhound bus
just pulling from the yard,
a foggy morning holding
the whole scene together

just barely hanging

in dew drops and exhaust/
in wheezing air brakes

on main street

i saw prince george
in the reflective windows
of a skyscraper

and then again
in the Serpentine
when it’s waters rose up
and the red sun of evening
was absorbed into
a bell pepper farm on hwy 10

i saw prince george
in a brown cloud of starlings
choking over english bay

mom & dad