That afternoon alone I made a stab
South at the alpine pass between Bear Creek
Spire and Mt. Dade, came over to the streaked
And broken bowl that stretched beneath Mt. Gabb.
I didn’t think to find him there all voice,
Ahead of his own news; or then to well
Up strangely in my walking, as a spell
On a lone mind, the speaking of that voice.
Later I would recall his sweat smell, acrid,
Our grassy rough-housing. He was so young.
How could I have known? -- but came to in fear,
Kneeling now in complete dark, to emit
An angry badger’s hiss, some closed-up tongue
Squat in the voice that had been his to hear.

J. Mark Smith lives, for the time being, in Toronto. A limited edition, fine-paper, stitched-binding chapbook, Civil Distance, was published by Poor Will Press in 2003. Copies for sale (15$ each) by the author at jmsmith@yorku.ca. His “Lullaby” was published in TDR’s January 2002 issue.