The exit polls
were unreliable:
falling leaves
revolve on the wind’s
luggage carousel.
For Sassoon, war
became a series
of holes and ditches.
Here at slack
tide, a gorge formed by two
collided
continents, water is settled,
and unsettled.
The Saint John — full
of bereavement, a
blindfold sweeping
across the
valley, a freepouring
of millennia, its
Styrofoam vernacular,
cut short by the
Atlantic — a thalassic
blockade,
tilting, sloshing, backward
compatible.
Whirlpools gurgle
aimlessly, and
spin fairy tales to gulls.
Ian LeTourneau
lives in Fredericton, NB (unsurrendered and unceded traditional
Wolastoqey land).
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
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