poem written in sainte-adele

(for christine mcnair

what do we know, against
a sainted list

a crime of produce, power-station
, kids on bikes ride bridgework

why am I always crossed, in love
a saint no longer is

do they think out like a marigold

a line apart a line of clouds
fence-resting at the razors edge

a row of fish, through french doors

a cycle of slow, bleating hearts
& inadequate warnings

*

the blood of late summer, brown

an intricate of reds
that echo tourists, tourists, skis

through the songs up to the house
through charcoal to black

through bicycle push, shock-pink

rooted in coral, like trees
& some greenery, some flesh

the way to bridges, highways, breath
is never the same route twice

accumulating chairs, slow passage

of three days into many moons,
a complex multitude