October 8, 2009, by Homme De Sept-Iles
away from
the tedium
of flags, of barichrome spots
cathedral arenas, uneatable ice
a muffle path
forgetting contracts, commercials, corporations
concessions, cacophonic failed athletes
and unimaginative jocks
a place on a river
where roar is a noun
and time is a place
there is no net
some cold rocks
and a mitten is comfort on running nose
and a stick
is made of wood
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