ice cracking on burlington bay, that’ll do it,
or sometimes just current events, sometimes
just lonely. it’s late this year, blame sunspots,
blame gravity, that angry rip current
bursting from those two black holes
that merged three billion years ago.
or the dwarf lilac, bereft of blooms
and choking on the byproducts of
combustion. a stick: i drove it into
the dirt like a conquistador, like
armstrong planting his flag, tied
it to a drooping branch on my
lemon tree. i wanted it to stand
tall, its pregnant flowers heavy
laden with fruit and straining
sunward. i wanted a truce in
my war against the invisible,
antlers instead of ear buds,
someone to vote for instead
of just against, a trusty guide
when tiptoeing drunk down
the spiral staircase. and what
fyodor promised us: beauty
enough to save the world.

Darrell Epp is the author of 3 poetry collections: Imaginary Maps, After Hours, and Sinners Dance. His next book, Mechanical Monkeys, will be published by Mosaic Press in 2020. He lives in Hamilton, Ontario.

This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.