1.
the last two hours of struggle as one minute,
a line of snails would burst from the green verge
like a salute of mistimed starters’ bullets,
loping into leads and losses for the curb—
has yet to explain to us draws them over
the concrete path we haven’t yet explained to Her—
bodies scoured on the drying foundation,
eyestalks strained at some strange salvation.
2.
Fingers count in pockets—two thirds of life
pledged to sleep and slow minds—and I predict
what promise remains will fail, humbled by lies
and cheques, both of which have become my product.
Habit and a path lead my morning walk,
and each hour that I tap on the stone of this clock
keeps water flowing and the Egyptians at bay,
but still leads to Jordan’s bank as ordained.
3.
or God that saved some over others, but chance—
the feet of those keen or restless few
on their way to work ahead of you advanced
despite the slow story playing below.
foot, you can’t know. You’re moving through the race
as one does a book, at a historian’s pace—
wondering how, between catastrophic fate
and divine interest, life ever lasts the day.
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George Murray is the author of four well-received books of poetry, including The Hunter (McClelland & Stewart, 2003), and The Rush to Here (Nightwood Editions, 2007).
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