Tuesday, November 12, 2019


        i.m. Ker Wells

Just say what you see, damn it, say it plain,
clear, show nothing, and forget expressing
emotion, you'll have better luck squeezing

a turd through your tympanum. Blue heron
on her stilts in the silt-scummed shallows
of the Clyde never concentrates, but she's

paying attention and knows what to do
at her wait's end, executed with bloodless
aplomb. You on your stilts in the tall grass

of the riverbank, cousin, you too knew
a thing or two about killing your darlings
and the world's aloof procession. The moon,

waxing full, casts a wake on the ripples
of the river. I can see you stilting
across it, wings akimbo, bound for the far shore.

Monday, April 22, 2019

Literary Power Couple in Print

The Dalhousie Review has just published a lengthy interview, conducted and introduced by Shane Neilson, of myself and Rachel, followed by reprints of a prose poem of Rachel's from Cottonopolis and a poem of mine from Track & Trace (which I realized the other day is now ten years old!). Only available in print, so get ye to the library if you feel the burning need to consume this content.

Thursday, April 11, 2019


I am evermore anxious that the future
is pure fiction, and yet I persist

in planning for it. When my son tells me
about the children he will have, I want

to shake him for thinking this hell is fit
for hopes and dreams. I don't. Instead, I smile

and stroke his head. His education
savings plan is growing nicely; it should

mature to six figures. He'll need it. Or won't.

The mortgages are getting paid ahead
of schedule. I'm installing a fifty-year

roof. By my calculations, the houses
should remain above water. They're building

a levee near the lowest-lying one.
All of this is likely crazy, but maybe

it beats doing nothing? I could always swerve.
Look for the fastball. Adjust to the curve.