by Bruce McRae
This is your reporter. We take you live
to the scene of multiple tomorrows.
There are cloudbanks in every room
and a noxious gas is fording our borders.
Cherubim fall like milk poured from a lip-red sky.
Notice the turmoil of lawns and gardens,
the way the earth eventually gives up her dead.
Listen to witnesses as they recoil
from an overabundance of weather.
See the void that’s opened, like a crack in the light.
Like lovers parting during wartime.
Like fingers crossing a heart
and every cemetery is filled with rosewater.
by Bruce McRae
We’re drunk and wondering
what the seas makes of us and this.
We’re fluted and imagine angels pissing
blossoms in between the tides.
Summer’s dead, and we admit we’ve killed it.
We held it too close to the fire
while trying to look inside its head.
We knocked over its machinery in our hurry.
We scoffed its dinner
then opened a magnum of death,
its black liqueur a bittersweet revenge.
That’s correct, we’re pie-eyed, officer.
We’re under the influence
of lightheaded stars and heavy weather.
We drink to remove ourselves.
In the long hall of comings and goings,
we drink and cannot remember.
Bruce McRae, a Canadian musician currently residing on Salt Spring Island BC, is a multiple Pushcart nominee with over 1,400 poems published internationally in magazines such as Poetry, Rattle and the North American Review. His books are The So-Called Sonnets (Silenced Press), An Unbecoming Fit Of Frenzy (Cawing Crow Press), Like As If (Pski’s Porch), and Hearsay (The Poet’s Haven).