The Finder
on the windows, the dirty film
in the sunlight shaped by the shadows
of apple trees dry winter branches
on English Bay a ship appears,
its hiding over two masts, a doubling
of the cross two Christs
one matching the other where
the world dies
the tabloids of fire, a Sunday supplement
to the San Francisco Examiner out of place,
in this time rises from the page
in a lightning storm which holds
this man at the horizon in his apocalypse
a war burning, if the heart scores
bodiless, a curious blood and reasons
in ourselves inheriting the intellect
from out there defined by a President
who is violence in this world,
a definition of this destiny we have
effected all's well without
'your' intelligence where the world dies
I bend 'you' to my mouth
and suck 'your' breath away
only worlds caught
in the glinting lights of those
pieces of glass found in the
forest under a tree crushed
and shining
-- Robin Blaser