By Jan Zwicky
Bare rooms, the echo of white light.
The moon, I think,
Is a white sail of pain.
The answer isn’t love or furniture,
We’re always on the move.
A satellite a hundred miles up
Paces its slow curve. Landscape
Glides beneath it. Scars.
We are discussing the possibility of dedicating a session early in 2018 to the poetry of Jan Zwicky, probably combining it with the poetry of Lorna Crozier. Let us have your thoughts on this.