musée mia burrus

What I don’t know

could fill the Great
Lakes    spill along
the St. Lawrence   swish
in the brackish
tidewater   slip
undistinguished
into the sea
 
I content myself picking
berries these mornings
the ritual   distinguishing
the ideal
colour and drop
of the drupes    my fingers
the berries soft as summer
sunrise heavy
with mist    each berry
a bead on
a rosary    a praise
 
maybe one workday
I’ll drive past
the office    next
stop Niagara
Falls where I will observe
my ignorance slide
over the scarp
smash into the rocks
and I will rejoice
in the heavenward mist
on the lids
of my unseeing eyes
 
 
 
mia burrus
july 2020