That's Not Possible?
The full wandering years of forever...
like the afternoon a black bear
came into a clearing at Crooked River,
way north of Prince George,
just to lightly stroke the hound's
forehead with one slow paw.
The blue gleam of a quarrel,
moose ribs on a lonely trail,
garbled words from a short wave radio,
miles of sub-zero night and no headlights,
a dog, dead forty years, coming back
each year on her birthday to run
crazed and happy in my skull.
Snowpacked road. Railroad tracks.
A pale pink moose under a pallid sky.
When I get to Prince George late
that January afternoon, an Indian
on a street corner near my motel
asks me to buy him a large
Hawaiian pizza... for the sake
of my carcass of a soul.
He's bleeding from a split ear.
It's below zero and the snow,
when I walk away, crunches
like styrofoam. When I get back,
he has a six-pack of cheap beer.
He laughs, I'm struck
by the fucked-upedness...
this town of trolls.
I tell him about the pink moose.
It's possible, he says.
When I was a boy
we used to get Christmas
presents from Toronto.