THE CEDER GUITAR
Calm, alone, the ceder guitar
tuned into a sunlight drone,
I'm here with sandalwood
and Patrica's clove pomander.
Thin snow carpets
on the roofs of Edmonton cars
prophesy the wilderness to come.
Downstairs in Swan's Cafe
the Indian girls are hunting
with their English names.
In Terry's Diner the counter man
plunges his tattoo in soapy water
Don't fall asleep until your plan
includes every angry nomad.
The juke-box sings of service everywhere
while I work to renew the style
which models the apostles
on these friends whom I have known.