POINTS ON THE GRID
George Bowering
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3. And This Is Still Not It
I CANT HELP IT I CANT HELP IT
IT JUST COMES OUT OF ME
all the lovely rose time of summer
in the vast humping mountains
——black shapes where are the stars?——
there I was all summer
you were water skiing
zipping all over spray
out of the ocean mouth
of the Fraser River
for you I strangled
the summer to death
hanging on tables cigarette fog
in old valley café
Italian fat women cutting sandwiches
to death
Winter coming an injection
in the veins of September
INDIAN SUMMER FOR GOD’S SAKE
(and now it’s not poetry)
I’m almost saying it now
what I want
hurry hurry
I can hear the absolute singing
of the crazy people
I’M RUNNING OUT I WONT MAKE IT
try to remember the summer
remember it to death
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