Chris Edgar


The Salt Ambassador

The ambassador offered salt
To the land drained of water
The idea wasn't new
But still under construction
And trapped in the old ways

With no regrets
They left the protection of the medieval town
And the ghastly mistake of the high renaissance
For the agglomerations of the industrial town
They might have been kind enough to soften the blow
But no, clear as day, the song was even, it could be lonely there
Because equations everywhere are the same
It takes all halves together because mountains, they are a feeling
And the foothills too are alive. Partial to older women
Especially from small states, this mesa becomes you.


A la prochaine

It may be recalled that at one time you were known as the antidote. Others called you a rotter. But those willows were numbered. In time a certain sense of reach was lost; a sense of something else replaced it, but neither soon nor well enough. In the train of things that followed, with a kind of grim reserve and a rictus smile I watched a flock of birds swim toward the mountain, waiting for the wreck that never came. Those days mornings were nearly always spent in the botanical garden. Just another Plain Jane out for a stroll. Wood smoke lingered in the air. A magnolia was blooming. These were the last moments I was able to think back with any clarity. After that, it was all traffic and wine and satellites.