Where the yellow lichens whisper to the skinny trees
and the permafrost bleeds rust into the stream,
I hid a stolen glacier in my pocket
and stood in the rain while the ancient rocks still moved.

Asking directions to places I do not need to go,
handing purple plums to strangers on the street,
the day-old pancakes turning into talk of meaning,
the clean cars staring at the dirt across my wheels.

Arctic riders spinning politics through the afternoon
and the sweet fruit sleeping forgotten in my hand,
the painted houses holding their colours through the summer,
my palm on the head of every new dog on the road.

Carrying the ugly troubles of another's aching heart
while the pyrite breathes and the ice forgets the ground,
and the plum still in my pocket at the end of the day,
warm now, and going soft.