Thursday, April 12, 2007

NEW! Poem by Graeme Bezanson

Graeme Bezanson


All my closest compadres were named for Idaho
which was named for nothing. Eleven set out west
to the mountains planted on the horizon
like a row of cattle's teeth. Ten gathered their clothes
above their heads and swam to the east
and the school bus shaped island. I wandered
from village to village with one boy to carry always
alongside me two liters of Coca-Cola, one boy
to follow me everywhere with a short-handled spade
to bury me with, wherever I fell.

No comments: