Winnipeg, July 2024

Chad Allan has died, and
Robbie Bachman has died, and
Ray St. Germain has just died, and
Winnipeg is fifteen decades (c)old.

Holy conjunction, agglomerate of rivers,
where tangerine sunset injects heartache
into the bicep of The Forks.

The sable hearts of sable crows remember
the railyard, and even efforts to reopen
Portage & Main are only milquetoast,
renewal plans notwithstanding.

Quadruple the white jerseys has ended with April,
and if you stand in the centre of the Esplanade Riel,
you’re inside the clock, second hands splayed in every direction.

Take any wire spoke like a zip line from this year to another,
one where you are not a shell of yourself in
Friendly Manitoba—hopeful hypocorism—
howling at ghosts under the full buck moon.