I might mention that the sheet you have I
will use part of the time.
And I will indicate when I'm doing this.
And some of the time I won't use it.
I'd like to use it now.
On page one, there's a poem called Vancouver Island, which
is a long island for those who haven't seen the map lately.
About a four-hours trip off the coast of British Columbia.
And I have a mythos about this island.
It seems that every day in the newspapers
there's a report of a car accident.
And every summer, there are many reports of cougars,
or I think you call them mountain lions,
coming into towns and eating dogs and children.
It's still quite rugged up there in the frontier.
And also, this was founded by the Spanish, who
became dissatisfied with California, and Arizona,
and places, and went north.
And came back.
Vancouver Island.
Mountain lions prowl the island of highway accidents,
grabbing dogs and children on the edge of town,
dripping mystery blood trails into the high woods.
Twisted wrecks are pried from bridge pillars
almost every night.
Death remains constant on the edge of the mind centuries
after the riptide drowned the Spaniards and their ships
as fast as they could send them around the Horn.
Mountains ruled by the puma, visited by Spanish eyes.
Yet viewing this death island with a road slicing
it lengthwise, the eyes in the head of the cat
hunted by townsmen from their fast cars.
Death watching from the top of a mountain,
looking down out to sea.