Word for/ Word

Matthew Cooperman

Canadian Mist

It’s not really there at the end of the week
Sinister ferry consciousness trying to arrive
Are you shimmying no I’m laughing
Those hygienic evergreen prompters everywhere
I remember everyone naming the mild socialists
Who make pleasant talk a drinking game
Some draft of the present about past things
Is this profound dispersal end of the provinces
Men with thin wrists and sport pants a'chirring
So much reverie in a rough duck twill
It’s GPS intelligence with a thirsty vow
A profound undoing by nature and sugar
Suggested pineal implant as so many pines
Are you shimmying no I’m cutting
The poles for the hockey sticks and the Slavs
For the sandwiches anything is possible
In a collective mood say all day clearly
Progress not so much but implied metacivility
Blue and gray repetitions of pituitary horizons
Wide tracts of boreal forest flashing mountie
And pigeon and whiskey and whale
Not exactly black velvet but empire and smooth
French to the analyst a manner of persuasion
It’s not exactly there at the end of the week
First Nation revenge and the fall out
From the advertisement a snow hare leaping
Into the arms of a waiting sea plane