rob mclennan | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
a valentine for anne quarterslip missing; a poster streetsville dream of field & pilfered fence; you cant grow home again ; the rest of body either, wither but a joke ; we were perpendicular, fused , a friday costume wasted in front of tudor doors, & hastings drains; what would go out through & under ; there is too much to want too much to keep track, too much to remember to forget or do you , forward glasses long & blue-mule keefer light & parties on & what a pear tree used to you cant blow home; or sewn up quick the hem of what you used to ; would keep a close watch eye & write a chill air even dawn & what the stars were, going on outside a manuscript for steve + kathy if through the cowgirl heat; a bottom, enters mid-summers sunday & a best of countless-dog nights ; would closer you would be at house , the legend of a sleeping king beneath a salisbury stake, a hill that rolls horizon fore ; the older paper get the more where entry, in a wealth of breath volcanoes around, street realm of queens & glue pot, swizzles , floor to floor to basement , never ground would goggles prose a beauty lent constrains all versions ; methodical & thus a twin-bear warm to where a sleep & lack of sense an ending, thus; made real today of short quick work a handhill for brian + delisle could rush report a made mile; endless lore as much as crater went ; went deep met, laughing , riverbanks & when; go people cars the smartest going on (in green) or would house you empty; barren, hardwood floors the lack of ruse for seconds turn; I spent a day in _____ two months long ; melodrama round , a skinless knee, trick up & out; force weight & fulcrum, paper chase of evenings carded, whistled-in ; irrational this is but forgetting ; taking time to sing my hen-ery, eight hermit times the bass is never-ended flight a plan a long of driving flat earth speeds in circles spinning paint you in a prairie mack an animal river; map of where we drowned them a basket of apples; the dining room , your sweater pegs |
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rob mclennan lives in Ottawa, Canada's glorious capital city, even though he was born there. The author of a dozen trade poetry collections, his lucky 13th is The Ottawa City Project (Ottawa ON: Chaudiere Books, 2007). A prolific editor, publisher & reviewer, he often posts reviews, essays, rants & other nonsense at www.robmclennan.blogspot.com. He is currently putting the finishing touches on the third issue of ottawater. | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
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