Margaret Laurence and me, convocation, Trent University, early eighties

the sound of…

Who can he lie with who will not see truth                        ruthlessness sunk by claret and port

What face will look at fastidious grates                        traits fulfilling a season of sport

Wearing blasts of penitent craving                                    behaving in sync with subordinate fashion

Weeping with smiles to crucify mirth                        dearth of a couplet that erases grave passion

Waking to notice lips on a pillow                                    willow and waddle and wallow and whine

Wincing with drool over butterfly blood                        flood all ducts with very best brine

Shaping gaunt patterns of splayed clotted wings            winking lashes with whips of perfume

Sifting through some of his least favorite things            thinking crashes in unfurnished rooms

Sinking dead moonbeams caught by a novice            provinces blinking through summerless suns

Slipping through cracks in an abbey less door            bores receiving handbags and guns

Seeing thresholds retreat from blonde floors            cores without apples like joy without fun

Slapping lame broadloom that settles the score            fourscore and seven times zero plus one

Carpeting flasks with moss bellied gnats                        flats at seventeen going on twelve

Camping it down through featherless hats                        brats who govern with heightening elves

Cooking one book with a sprig of old thyme            crime unfit for punishment’s rule

Creaming the crop of illegitimate rhyme                        signing a cheque for hardworking fools

Croaking flowers by strangling vines                        trying to let billowing shrouds

Cascading his larynx with very bad wine                        winding through lengths of thinning crowds

Shame at the thought of a good deed undone            fun for fast fury fellating the proud