Xenial Zigzag

By Michael H. Kew

heavy Kwanzaa snows wilt to neurotic drizzle

pounded down by white clumps of ice onto dormant Oregon twigs of hope—

I recall interlocution of nature’s grayscale vision angel

Sun seething dismissal as we correlate cross-isle toward the Bretonic storm

mushy cod tongues melting to memory of malty farts

rhapsodic Lawrence waters of promise

of Acadian trailheads

of Cabot causality

and for hours we wheel deeply into hangovers of sticky French residue

the Block of blocks beneath violescent sky

Nico ballin’ that jack into the deep dark gale

raising the spirit as we blow to poor gray Chéticamp

in ataraxia we stretch the night

lusting of long fake left-hander, left to darkness unmolested

persistent application of fascination forever failed

Why leave? All photos: Kew.

“Oui, the left point is thataway.”

Fake news.

ol’ Scotty—mainlander

redflanneled cracky squeak-squares and tears

fingers as fishy red featherfins

finning and blitzing thru his bushy cheddar eyes

spinning his gray ‘Yota cercle south to Mabou

an afternoon of the Red Shoe

for all of us in Gabriel’s reddest of rain

choking on pangs of the unsalted

punished by high salmonburger pints and poutine

polished by box of fire and the unholy sweat of sunset

Settling in.

Next day: unsettled stomachs.

gaze

floating curvature of clock

blasted with Halifax hocks and hails of ale

cantillated surf-verse

fermented by bluey-green wisdom of Christmas Tree Point

the holy pre-dreaming joint of Nico

sparkling

smiling

winking

for of us all dreaming Greekily in his new old worlds of joy

Leaving is returning.

Adapted from Incense Gardens, forthcoming work of travel poetry (Spruce Coast Press, 2022).