rob mclennan

a valentine for anne

quarterslip missing; a poster streetsville dream
of field & pilfered fence; you cant
        grow home again
; the rest of body either, wither
                but a joke
    ; we were perpendicular, fused
, a friday costume wasted
                    in front of tudor doors,
& hastings drains; what would go out through
& under
        ; there is too much to want

too much to keep track, too much
to remember to forget
                or do you
, forward glasses long & blue-mule keefer light
& parties on
        & what a pear tree
                    used to
you cant blow home; or sewn up quick
the hem of what you used to

    ; would keep a close watch eye
    & write a chill air even dawn

& what the stars were, going on outside

a manuscript for steve + kathy

if through the cowgirl heat; a bottom, enters
mid-summers sunday & a best
        of countless-dog nights
; would closer you would be at house
            , the legend of a sleeping king
    beneath a salisbury stake, a hill
that rolls horizon fore

        ; the older paper get the more

where entry, in a wealth of breath
volcanoes around, street realm of queens
        & glue pot, swizzles
, floor to floor to basement
                , never ground

would goggles prose a beauty lent constrains
all versions
        ; methodical & thus
a twin-bear warm

    to where a sleep & lack of sense

an ending, thus; made real today of short quick work

a handhill for brian + delisle

could rush report a made mile; endless lore
as much as crater went
    ; went deep met, laughing
, riverbanks & when; go people cars
            the smartest going on (in green)

or would house you empty; barren, hardwood floors

the lack of ruse for seconds turn; I spent a day
in _____ two months long
                ; melodrama round
, a skinless knee, trick up
& out; force weight & fulcrum, paper chase
        of evenings carded, whistled-in
; irrational this is but forgetting
            ; taking time to sing
my hen-ery, eight hermit times
                    the bass
            is never-ended

flight a plan a long of driving flat earth speeds
in circles spinning paint you in a prairie mack

    an animal river; map
of where we drowned them

a basket of apples; the dining room
, your sweater pegs

«±  ±»

rob mclennan lives in Ottawa, Canada's glorious capital city, even though he was born there. The author of a dozen trade poetry collections, his lucky 13th is The Ottawa City Project (Ottawa ON: Chaudiere Books, 2007). A prolific editor, publisher & reviewer, he often posts reviews, essays, rants & other nonsense at He is currently putting the finishing touches on the third issue of ottawater.




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