like Gwen in wild weed,
Ewart blows westward,
his ax pointed square
south; he reinvents the
compass, spits it from
his mouth; downbeat
and long tones mixing
in & out of new harmony
there are those who’d
say the prairie dreams
us perhaps
Duriel’s laughter
strikes out across that
sound like some boy a-
mong the Dan like
some Dan Diss caught
between the blood &
the gospel,
I am dis-
solved in their songs
Photo by Johnnie Walker
