where the writers are
Harbour: A Nature Poem

 The ice churned up by the incoming ship, like the slush

in the bottom of a icedrink at McD, a slab of the stuff

landed on the deck of the garden in the harbour -

looking like a butcher's cutting board - and firmly imprinted

upon its surface a solitary can, as if it were an exhibition

the blue-green ice yellowed as in Saturday night piss

with the contrast of a bunch of grass, green, the rusty

anchor eyelet, and other remnants of industriousness

are now left to signify the fact that they were left

deliberately as an architectural concession to history

from Bauhaus blocked apartments, people watch

the winter wasteland that in ice mud in microcosm

could be Siberia overflown by Tupolev jet in scream

toward Japan; a gorbellied crow with season fat,

with friend taps at the sand of the mini-golf lane

the imagery is insolvable, dragged in without much

rhyme or reason, only for the sake of the ostensory

of language, viewed during a Saturday, with camera,

As two massive cranes arched over the afternoon,

they gave perspective between nature and city

and pause for thought regarding which out of the two

are the more, how shall we put it, photogenic?

To use a basketball term, perhaps, one gives the assist,

in the composition, the arrangement of the shot,

But I would rather that the metallic sauropods which

inhabit the harbour were made by Nature extinct

instead they will in rusted form as in the grand museum

stay put to serve as the "Oh look what it used to be like"

as the postiche, a whim of the architect, instead of a forest

or a wolf, we conserve things that helped to lynch

Nature, have her hang by the hook, and end up at best

as something one looks up in a dusty old natural history book.