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She builds scaffolds out of
crazy oxymorons like urban wilderness
& perches herself there,
raucous as a winter night,
declaims poetry of hers
fricative against naked throat
& it is stars themselves which soften it,
balm for entering souls
like you enter temples,
red-slow
& never read.
Then they settle, fragmented scintillants,
metaphorically meted, muted, verse poured,
versed, versicled
into heartbeats
more or less receptive receptacles
& Spring stirs at this, still
underworld-sleepy, unformed.
Mythologists publish a recall
on their gods and muses, defective,
bring them in from their fieldwork
at poets' awe, disbelief,
never ascribe them omnipresence
because you don't inspire and die,
you expire and die
& poets must be mortal, it is said.
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Of all known institutions, I attend only two: church, in my heart, and school, in yours. Both are subject to demolition. - Lucie Adams, 2007
It is only for poetry to know how many stanzas fit into one caress. - Lucie Adams, 2008
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Ontario village
