M.L.S.Miles

M.L.S. MILES

By JC STREET © 2004 all rights reserved

Three brooding days too soon
spent;
clutched in Autumn's dying
leaves to be swept
by some Fall wind, time

serves to forge an image; a
lucid web on the mind, a
fragile link with nature, wrinkled
leaf;
wind-thrown on nightroad . . .

the neverpresent, half-forgotten touch of
vague soft things
keeps the dream intact; waiting
for sleep
or a letter, the

words are the dream, dream
the image, a
subtle scent;
paper reminder

fantasy

too soon lived
never dead,
fills the gaps between milestones, those
forms
on the map of our love, the

red, the blue, the
black
connecting centers of importance

the between, the hinterland
of moss and marsh, eye-
smashing branches, the
anticipation of night

corners, alleys
pockmarks of rooms, music and light, a
blue comb a bird
whispering, the brush
of curtains by the window - still

contain the dream, preserve your
onceness, some
light laugh some pensive
eyebrow-raised glance

How?

could one forget the burnt
toast or drink wine,
without a sudden belly-churn song
coming to mind, if

that bird comes tomorrow,
shall I say you've gone, or
ask it to wait
with me?

-30-

Montreal, October 13, 1969—just off the steel rail Canadian Pacific trans-Canada train from Vancouver, with a willow-haired girl locked in my heart