From the penthouse restaurant we watch
the city disappear. Falling snow
smudges streetlights, rubs away
outlines of shops, gas stations, cars
crossing the bridge— blurry lumps
of movement. This isn't the view we came for.
Next morning, silence. Snow's hip-deep on sidewalks.
City's quieter than a small town on a Sunday.
Later, after breakfast, a sound: some guy buzzing his snowmobile
down the streets, just because he can. Radio talks of nothing
but the storm. We turn it off, finally, and go out, our boots labouring
through drifts. Each footfall, each breath, leaves a sharp outline
in the still air. We leave the neighbourhood and walk
down the middle of Pembina Highway, alone.
3 comments:
Love the snow smudging and rubbing, like an anti-eraser.
Small thing, I think you could lose the two ('s) in the second stanza ("snow hip-deep on sidewalk, city quieter than a...") for a cleaner feel
Great image to end on
hi joanne!
i love the line "The isn't the view we came for." i'd love to see where this is going...!
The images in this poem are clear and easy to imagine, but I'm having a hard time entering into the poem "emotionally" or with my subtler senses. The description, though well done, seems to be keeping me out of the interior of whatever is going on here between these characters on their trek.
How does it feel to have been shut into silence and yet hear "some guy buzzing his snowmobile"? I'd love to be able to access this poem on a deeper level than just the visual.
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