“A deserted city. We’ll have to imagine it’s in a movie.”

On the eve of December 21, my penultimate end-of-the-world poem, this one from Looms:

*
A deserted city. We’ll have to imagine
it’s in a movie. Beneath a listless dome, walls
crumble into backlit dust. Flames on a hillside swarm,
tattered auburn fishes in the autumn wind. Glints of dying
light fall on unmoored mountains whose thoughts of home
come to nothing. Everywhere, flocks of matter dip pale snouts
into inky ponds. We’ll have to imagine someone watching
that movie. No one left to forget irrelevant seeds. Some left off
praying to the mother of a tarnished idol presiding over a flock
of angels, breath attended by golden lice. Others
paused long enough to view dusk’s leisurely descent
over the white noise of crashing surf. All found something
to swear by before it was too late. Photogenic dullards jazzed
in the waning light. A ship’s captain jingled his coins
before staving in the ship. Embers in a hearth
illuminated fish bones on plates.

Sonnets and Looms are available from the following vendors:

Small Press Distribution
Book City in Toronto
Apollinaire’s Bookshoppe
Amazon.ca
Shearsman Books.

Cheers!

---

Camille Martin