The Canals 

 
      home of weather     -ed luger      green        pistol 
                      black                            ivory         grip 
like Italy’s   a rider’s boot               the boy ties          fishing 
                                                                     lines to flies’ feet                          
                         them                       strings                                           
                                            the             
                         finger                      guides              for                            knuckles 
                                                                                        his                     w/ 
    arms Redentor for                 balance on the concrete water 
distinction                beside                      the effulgent canal                      effluvial                                                      
                                                     Boy with Fly Fingers crosses                  his heart 
takes his       lumps    &                                                                              his                      
                      time                  beautifully non 
                                    
                                             senescent 
and sprezzatura                                                      lifting                      
                        the severed                                         cod                            &                      
                        Bill’s two                                          green     
                                                                                   stones                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           
                                                                                                                  a welcome 
luncheon            next-door                                   at Nana’s 
             stamen                     in his teeth                                                   pistil 
of honeysuckle                   a lawnmower            only red 
               onion                   makes him cry 
                        he rides over                           Tuesday’s terrific  
                                                 goose                                                        the flesh 
eyeball      and orange              foot 
                                                                            salad tossed 
            in the brown bag for later 
                                                                      the still-warm green             
              grommets                    of his heroic           cloak tarpaulin 
 blue at his neckline the                           brass cape             &                 chain and                                                                                                                                                                                     penannular 
  brooch of lucre                         a spine 
    of saw palm                                         sharp in magnificence              a jackknife                         
                     on his beltloop dangle                               there’s no           
        genuine 
war then             again                                    again however                   on occasion: 
 
In the distant gilt of summer 
hatchling cicadas flirt with imago;                                                            
you can hear him by mangrove,                                                               hatching  
cuckoo eggs with sling shots,                                                                    him and 
his quarrels with the trees                                                                         the trees.











     
 

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John B. Oldenborg called Tallahassee home. He recently graduated from the University of Nevada, Las Vegas with an M.F.A. in creative writing. His work appears or is forthcoming at Denver Quarterly, TIMBER, Petrichor, Tilted House, Hobart, Rougarou, Grotto, and elsewhere online.