Roddy Lumsden

For Jesus

Dusk, outskirts of Calgary. I've just smoked five figurados
down to the jip to get my voice low enough to sing this.
True light makes its last moves on the fields. One bite left
of an oaten cookie, pudgy and viscid, its good dough flesh,
white choc chunks. She's flying back and my left eye binds
and binds the stress of sorrow. Here, where day roads end,

I press my digitus impudicus to thick, coach-window glass.
Ah glass! I hate the way the way we touched withers to less
now she is in the sky. Soon, pour me off a pint of Arctic Red
with Rich Tea sweetness and bitter fuss, shore bubble head
and forgive me, my snowboarding barman, I have my reasons
when I leave the last half copper inch of it for Jesus.

It's only a ploy in my endgame. A draught above heat
above snow on snow, to take me back to where desire operates:
the iceblind gulch between what's wanted and what hurts
Listen, my bonny apronned boy. Write down these words.
Before I go, you'll need them, to remind me. You will now
Won't you? The prettier they are the deader they kill you.