Jordan Mounteer ≈ Two Poems






I am watching wild geese return to the lake through

the scuff of a bus window.

Their formations point away

from weather and its violations

as if to disavow the tedium we suffer

half the year in winter’s gated districts.

Or the effigies we burn in private

to lure them back.  Joslyn lifts her head

off my shoulder and her gaze slants away,

loses itself in the metallic light of the city

as it pistons between day and night.  

Some nights in my arms she stretches

as if she might reach every corner of the room at once,

and when I fear she may I pull her closer.

Or the way her wrist will push into my thumb,

piano-wires pulled along the bone,

the buried tension in the angle of her smile.

These are the variables we consciously align

so as to love each other with the passing dignity

of a dream dreamt well,                                        

each moment leaning into the next

like dominoes balanced on the rim

of our everydayness.   More feet shuffle

past us in the aisle, the hiss of brakes collapsing.

Behind us a dozen white wings

upheld on their reflections.


Vancouver, ‘13





Downtown fossilizes in a hierarchy of glass, steel,
tinted brick stacked up like sedimentary deposits
any geologist might examine to deduce extinctions.
I wait for Kim on the top floor of a used book store.
Through the window the particle physics
of traffic spree in well-oiled agreement.
If there must be a secret hope it is for
collision, a catalyst to shake the machinery
of our expectations into something new and horrible.
When she arrives I tell her nothing of this,
instead motion to a column of Rilke’s collected works
collecting dust in the far corner of

the vicious quality of being human.




2 thoughts on “Jordan Mounteer ≈ Two Poems

  1. daen says:

    very very impressive write…the first made me care, again in memory…of how sweet it is..
    to hold each other…lovingly laid upon this glass, i believe you

    the second a very jazzy wordsmithing happening, breaking and tearing…in a very spirited manner, love the play of the paradoxes of struggle, going on in this, so real

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