From the Gradual

The continent in its creep (its
low gradual gear)
comes over across the sea.
The long aged water.
From the peak of the roof
I watch the waves slip in
their troughs and tumble
eachother.
It all sounds like smoke - this
gimmick of earth.

Then the great Canadians crook
under the clouds
hemmed with their noise. This is
their season, and they know it.
They will tell you that
they come in on
the cold wind that comes in.

But the arrogance of their shadows
goes unnoticed on the deaf
gears that creep

this moment from hence to
forth, hence to forth.