One Bridge Near Redwater, Alberta

near redwater I can remember

the long bridge over

the north saskatchewan river

—how it looked with hoarfrost

every morning in your car

as though

at any moment

it would break and fall and sweep

its own concrete soul beneath

the curling green and white

to let the river become a boundary

again—

impassable

this christmas I wish I had

come back

to smell the smells

of alberta

—walk the bridge near redwater

to feel against my feet

the juggernaut all things carry

and the momentum

held by moving

for so long

without stopping

Old Habits

I still tell strangers

among the petty things

that I have a small sister

somewhere in Alberta

living with mosquitoes

working a modest job.

This heavy, coarse habit—

living

—but only living

among fresh lies

that stand between

few preoccupying truths—

my brother’s adventures

my parents’ retirement

—on a stone mantelpiece

above a fireplace

enclosed

by dried cement

in a picture frame

lacking corners

Standing With A Camera

The second snowfall

covered the first

yesterday

and through a usual

fog I captured

exposures

—grandparent and child,

nestled in coats,

feeding fowl—

with all available light.

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