Four poems for Christian McPherson

at the behest of reading

 

1

Pandemic. To exist, precisely, as a speculative discourse.

Orchard, orchard, trees. A past hope, and
a formal splinter. Contemporary absence

of what once a wealth of apples,
farmland. News

that stays news.

I see you, standing. Driveway visits
from within.

Writerly, of course. Two laptops fueled
by indignation, and

by formal method.

 

2.

Prior. The quiet diffusion of
the front step, yard. What neighbours

gather.

 

3.

Listening. I write again the first person. I write
again the third. You read a poem glitch and

glitch and glitch glitch. Poetry
is barbaric.

Lost.

 

4.

Wine.