This poem is taken from Stand 219, 16(3) August - September 2018.

Mary Gilliland Four Poems
Infinitives

To admit fields are on fire, oil fields,
though we do not yet see them burning; 
to remember our grandparents sweltered
each summer, waiting for the streetcar,
for nightfall; to irrigate loosened earth
with native water; to bail out the seed
banks, to chew our food; to call the bluff
of the brand name, the marketing genius; 
to digest resources burnt to a crisp threshold; 
to savour our craving—to satiation;
to be free of litter strewn beyond us
steering through the Hesperides, sacred
groves, Blessèd Isles, past the ghost
of a man on the moon’s new frontier,
our course set for the destitute sunset.
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