rob mclennan

Stephanie Bolster’s “The Japanese Pavillion,” variation one

Above the rooftops, builders recede
into glass; the newspapers, hand
over mouth to hide

the mirrored rooms. Bow
named for neighbouring homes, they talk
to live long; it rained, listen.

This time of year, a squirrel
on the other side, animated, withered
before her stopped face. Unexpected;

gifts blank; said, thank you; framed
scenes in clear water, future
in the distance. She must die again.

All this writing, most unseemly; the mouth
to understand; that I should go, attained.