A Japanese motorcycle dredged up onto the shore,
marooned on a remote beach of British Columbia,
reveals the ocean has no ending and no beginning.
Its resurrection, second-coming, is hard evidence
of shadow addresses. Things imagination fathoms.
A reminder how the every day needs vandalizing.
Images arise, accrue on the flip-side of perception,
words flash-mob, the choreography unrehearsed,
energies gather, find release. The electrical effect
stun-guns our ennui, defibrillates natural objects
so invention comes to life. It begins with anything
wearing a halo of truth. A forgotten tree. Names.
The songs of birds, at false dawn, like clockwork.
No matter what is to blame, mere speck or spy-glass,
a gathering storm or a lantern in a battened cellar,
surprise can be counted on to rise to the surface
like a Japanese Harley. That spook of recognition,
an invisible highway to ride on through our losses.
By Chris Banks