Dominique Bechard

Danse Macabre with Field Guide to Geologic Waste


I was reading with no chance of retaining anything
           that might console. Only ten minutes,
and so much lost to a King St. vodka bar, tailings

of days chasing wanhope with tonic, phoning
           family members with nothing
to report besides the salacious and the macabre

we carefully fail to mention for each otherís sake.
           I canít account for why I end
the day by undoing the dayís paltry attempts

at poise. Deliberately alone, on New Yearís Eve,
           a barman offered me a thin pill,
and I continued to chart overburden for a geology

minor I would never complete, the rudiments of which
           have been cast through memoryís
clamor and sluice. Later that night, a chance meeting

with an old friend, homeless since highschool,
           with a plan to escort loved ones
to a location with berries. I proposed the James Bay

Lowlands, but didnít have the heart to mention
           bears, nearby chromite mines.
Friend, you will be found wanting everywhere.



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