where they come from Tom its a kind of map pal (& to track those lines across yr open hand reaching as we each drive to the edge landscape or language where horizon rides the winds favours we re together here as you say saying the words we need to get there again green enclosures, moist breeze soft against your face / unfolding prairie wind cutting ice from the mountains (inscribed a hello trails across oceans falls one white flake at a time caught brilliance in the streetlamps glow high above & look how the page takes shape there that single thistle shining ideogram green imprint on the opening field
If no ones present presence presents a vertical movement the absent i partakes of sky spreading (thats not sprawl all gone into the world of light or dark hills hiding the just folks he paddled away from every chance he got reds deep blues seize the day / light slowly its taken 70 years now fading over the water the leaves colour theres that rock at the bottom of everything were supposed to pay no attention & away away the lone line leaps beyond the frame up toward the sky he you i drowned in is that ice ice or only a reflection the reception of that gone time hand moving on the waters continuesThe National Gallery, Ottawa
My friend moon I pulled a leaf from the tree to see you [pulled the water closer too a thief spills it the leaf floats] better`the gift of your poems' and `for L.N.' appeared in Nimrod. `Tom Thomason: `The Jack Pine' 1916-1917' appeared in West Coast Line.