flight, ascent

by Gord Sellar

   nights waiting
to feel this life
         slip from me,
 sliding off, out
      making its own

                     —imagining it strut
        along narrow streets
  with walking
      stick, & slick under tweed—

lain on my
            husk-side, trying
        not to think: i
           need rather
                             to be the thing

hidden tremor
            pulls at all
the flesh beneath my
     shakes under
   it keeps a secret.

i know it does.

            –Saskatoon, 1998

February 8, 2012

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