Cooking as a conclusion. Another means of mixing, of limitations, all for the sake of
effects.
Layers of the thinnest, layers of the heavy. Imprecisions.
“Hey. I dreamt I spent my days freeing flies, those trapped in the windows. Blue Bottles. Big. Slow. Desperate. Yearning for the light on Lucknow Street. Wait…”
Some moments of intricate lengths.
Some kind of classification.
I did this.
This was really to be had, the order in my hands (left container, right paper), the breath of the door and passing suspicion, the need to finish an impatient afternoon.
Bless the outline of my desire.
About the Author
Gil McElroy is a poet and visual arts curator currently living in northern Ontario. He has published five books of poetry (most recently Long Division with the University of Calgary Press), a collection of his writings on visual art (with Gaspereau Press), and a memoir of growing up a military brat during the Cold War (with Talonbooks). He is currently completing a manuscript entitled Random Grammars.
Leave a Reply