For Tom Thomson

I have thrust my fists         up to ice in the         galactic mire of lake,         lured my minnow wriggler         eyes as bait to ensnare         inroads, lake bed wreaths,         across the windchill spine of         brooding heart.         I am on the essence of the North         where latitudes of cold spontaneity         remind me the nameless lakes         part not easily with their secrets.         A man's bones go easily to rot         in the frigid perspiration         called primeval ooze,         precambrian sweat,         the tertiary stage syphilitic crawl         of advancing ice.         All those terms your detractors, analyzers,         devotees coin to define you: the Boreal,         taiga, subarctic steppes, white hell,         recoil under the onslaught, the lustrate message straining         up alkaline clear.         Water is your blood.         A vast hoarding, most of this         planet's fresh drink         is flushed through your         bowels, with kidneys         separating the renic         qualities as snow and         sleet, the night side of         your character.         Tom, son of Thomson fame,         his little canoe immeshed         as scrubbed floorboards now,         a giant winnowing such scattered         firewood over a slow crop of         putrefying muck; perhaps         I see your eyes         as sturdy bubbles         popping from legions         of green liquid         to carouse with your         firm memory.