by Brian Swann

    The song was moist， filing away，

    drifting while we drifted， something

    in blackface， Al Jolson of birdland，

    not quite right， prophesizing until hoarse¹

    who knows what. The locals say he

    draws poison from you， angatkuk，

    shaman， though they don't believe it.

    Then the incongruous smell of

    chrysanthemum² crossed us up and

    we remembered the service-station

    with someone in handcuffs. Probably

    a mistake， said the attendant， though

    they do get violent. The prisoner yawned.

    Our map lumbered³ from point to point

    as if trying to remember something itself，

    anything. We tossed it and got out.

    On the long walk back the tundra⁴ looked cozier

    by moonlight， everywhere the same，

    white as bleached⁵ whalebone. But

    things had not been right all day.

    In the damp heat everything was wobbly，

    even the bride at the old mission who

    seemed to grow clouds like companions，

    drawing them after. I glimpsed a ring

    of seal-fur flash on her wrist. Mm-hmm，

    unh-hunh they went. The honeymoon⁶

    was spent beyond the rigs. It was enough

    for them it didn't rain or snow though

    the driftwood fire they made beside the boats

    was all smoke. The sea sounded obscure

    as if it had no shape and was empty.

    We tried to capture it on Canon 501

    and sent it south， but even that seemed staged.

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