FIRST TALK OF THE VIRUS
pub talk and rabble
spills onto the loneliness of roads.
she’s careful in stilettos.
a dog yaps at her heels,
as she steps between, among the cars.
there’s talk of a virus—
that’s the first Ive heard of it.
the signage of the city flares,
half-lit, beaming its convenience
as true darkness descends.
Marcus Ten Low
CHESS CALENDAR
a sample of what my life looks like (in calendar form)
white square = day
black square = night
Marcus Ten Low
MY FAVOURITE U.S. POET TELLS ME HE OWNS A GUN
inspired by Don Thompson (reportedly living near Buttonwillow)
It’s a long story,
He says. And it is, I want to listen
To it all. I lie in bed
Restlessly tugging at my small pillow to soften
My big head, and picturing him still seated
At an oak table this late in the night:
Looking stately, shape-shifting
His words on the page to create his latest verse.
(Such an accomplished master, and yet---
Somehow—)
I’m receptive to the slightest sounds,
It could go bang. I clutch my feet
Rubbing my hands, and earnestly thinking
What to respond. It’s a “shooting gallery”.
Ninety birds twitter
In my mind, all potential targets for his firearm.
Belligerent, yet dolefully large-eyed,
I cry, and rock myself to sleep.
Marcus Ten Low