“Something out of memory walks toward us, something that refutes the dictionary, that won’t roost in the field guide. Something that once flew and now must trudge. Call it grief, trailing its wings like a shabby overcoat, like a burnt flag. Call it ghost. Call it aftermath. Call it remorse for its ability to bite and bite again.”
— Don McKay, from “Angel of Extinction,” Angular Unconformity: Collected Poems 1970-2014 (Icehouse Poetry, 2014)






















