Transcona calls me at three in the morning
demanding a rewrite
But I’ve moved to St. James. And the Free Press
is already printed
The rivers are bingeing and purging again –
you see them only in the spring on the early news
This love moves toward something
at bonspiel speed
Consider yourself unhaloed in a trailer park
in St. Vital
You can lead a tourist to the Red River
but you can’t make him drink himself to death
It’s Saturday evening
I’ll be at home, fucking up locutions
Sunday morning
I’ll be at the floodway burying Saturday