The Blue Moon Review

Re: Crossing
by Colin Morton
5/20/96

Driving south into spring
May snow sheltering on the forest floor
red poplar buds greening

I cross the border and drive out from under
into hazy interlake Ontario 
roosterruled farmyards composed like Flemish masters 
        door/dogdish/bone/halfton/compact/trike 
        sugarbush/pigtrough/railfence/ditches blooming 

snapshots of lives that never stand still
long enough to know.




5/24/96

In the bulk food store:
a bin of pencil stubs
a stack of ecoposters
printed one side only.

I wrote a letter home a letter away a letter home and so on
until I ran out of paper and
all the letters I had to write
were away away away.




5/26/96

Under cold sun I drive the wide
arched bridge across the seaway past Longueuil
and down the valley under the road's hypnosis.

Beneath me flows the wealth of Chicago Detroit
and all the prairie states ñ la fleuve
opens like a french kiss to the Atlantic
trading lanes.

Granada/Panama/the Gulf/Somalia
even Bosnia at last ñ wherever 
an American has interests
the marines will mobilize in days.
How long do you suppose to secure a seaway
two hours from the statue of liberty?

I ask this of a radio caller
once outraged at the sight of a tank.



5/28/96

Citizen A veers across three lanes of rush hour traffic
to thrust a poster in the face of Citizen B
ignoring B's child in her wobbly stroller
        and politicians talk of amiable divorce 
                ñ Calice!

A people so angry a cyclist brakes
to argue with the ones he nearly hit
speeding under the bridge 
ñ over the edge no matter


In early evening hot air balloons drift overhead
little moons reflecting sunset over the green plain
over a city of rivers/spires/streetpeople

brainy people with no idea
people of two minds who go years without writing a letter
people hardy in their foolhardiness
people who say  but  but  but  but
beautiful people skin deep
with their past imperfect
passive-aggressive possessives
sociable people with significant others
who dream of leaving it all behind 

If I could say my people



5/30/96

I walk your sidewalks again
no wider than last year
and rather than smile as we pass you look away
make me an negative integer
a cataract, a blank on your screen.

I jaywalk, forget to wear a hat
leave my umbrella on the bus
stand in front of a deputy assistant in an elevator
and feel the fear like rain.

Averting eyes we make of each other
the negative image of a country
too busy to look

up/over/around/through into
out     about



6/3/96

I have tried sometimes as tourists say
pÈnÈtrer la vie des gens
outside my own door
have tried to know these reluctant people
so much part of me.

Headlines land like grenades on doorsteps each morning
but the joggers aren't home, they're out with the newsboy 
sleek thighs delivering them 
round the leafy lagoon and home to showers
while my coffee cools on a windowledge
overflowing with pencil stubs.

They pass my window running/walking 
on cycle/skateboard always somewhere 
backpacking grade schoolers
inline skating/online surfing high school juniors
retirees fending brooms 
young mothers with childseats on bicycle fenders.

Who wouldn't have a soft spot for them?
deputy assistants in blue and red
power suits already threadbare
on the way to the bus stop with Globe under arm
though more cynical the more they understand
of anything they read.

I know their clumsy minds lost transitive grins
have heard my own hollow echo
theirs in a goodbye hug.

These folk so unclaimed they refuse to be called folk
free people 
with their silence and immense disappointment
arrogant people hugging resentments like stuffed toys
people of ice and irony who grew up knowing all about Santa
who know the cost of everything but silence
who have never been asked to forgive before
close-lipped lonely as indefinite articles.

The cost plus tax plus tax plus
the gross cost




6/6/96

Some welcome home if
that's what you call it
ñ a head turned away
and     this    blank   page.





6/24/96

Joke or prophecy?
Rain falls so hard car alarms cry out
all over Parliament Hill.

"Having read this book
tie a stone to it and throw it in the river
lest what is written here shall come to pass."

After rain the forests between us are fragrant
with birth and death and copulating blooms
hot air balloons drift by and on the river
hatchlings kick boldly into the current.

We meet on shore
each with a bag of crusts
to spread on the water.
......................