2 Poems Kristen Bissaillon

Weft

tolls the blesséd night, the blesséd moon,
tolls the flowers in their bells.
dust which warms,
curtain calls.
Cost bereft of loss,
the proffered coin,
the delight of the soul
and no other.

The waxing of wishes,
spin the fulfillment dish,
the blesséd knife, O!
the blesséd knife.

The dharma of the firefly
and gross pumpkin patch
where the hands of the children
met the hope of the grandfather.
Leaves mounded in fragrant decay.

The mechanism of fire, its propagation,
The delight of the soul.
The coin of the challenge table.
which is singular, and blesséd



Ascent

Were times, in the modest liturgy,
the demon-spaded broken-back in his platter-hat
made furious through the fibre-platt
and we were witness to the mimic-tide.

We as witness, without tooth,
trickle to tell, down our beards,
in the health of doom
and minding bubbles as they plowed.

I in our affine plummet sow,
and gurgle to splay,
and muscle my nails and
toothless glom; my quaver
in the unknown song:
to bid the maelstrom,
quickening in haste with blood for lust,
and seek our ascent
in holds of moss and glass.