DS Maolalai


in wait upon mallards 


the bookshelf collapsed
with the wet weight
of water damage
and the slightly
more dry weight
of second-
hand novels.
pages cascaded
like a dropped box
of dominoes –

and the stain
had been blooming
on the wall there
for weeks now,
open and tapered
as the petals of fresh-
flowered crocus. beautiful:
a magnificent
orange on white.

and books fell
quite suddenly,
all poems and stories,
written in the 60s
about hard old men
and young men
discovering wilderness,
in grass and in wait
upon mallards
and trout. what they think
while they’re waiting –
what they talk about.

carver and brautigan –
their various imitators.
I was on the sofa
opposite, not reading
or hunting – playing around
on my phone.
I looked at the crack
and the tumble –

the doppler
of wings