For Gord Clee, Mystery lover


Though not a scientest, I love things like

Algebra, mysteries, chicken guts;

Regular, solvable, neatly packaged.


When the (ab) squared  meets 2(ab) in chapter one

And they turn out to have found the missing documents

Then the gall bladder will be atop the liver.


Every single time.

Wrapped in the glistening, translucent shroud

Of hiddenness.


Once Joce and I helped Martin and Maurice blow

A hole in the Canadian shield.  I held the jack hammer

That ran off the air compresser, and 


I´ve got the scars on my boots to prove it.

Dynomite rhymes with ´skin on tight.´

I ate some dynomite for good health.


Martin and Maurice are both dead now,

(aha! The discovery of the bodies), and I´m

getting thin-all-right, but my health’s so far so good. 


We drilled the holes ten feet apart.

We dropped in the dynomite and Martin ran the fuse

We hid past the hill while Maurice pushed the handle


When the dust settled I ran to inspect the fallout

A field of new rocks glistening, kept fresh

Since the creation in the caul of hiddenness.


To clear up the mystery the boys

Died a natural death from drinking.

 I´ll die of old age, and my secrets go with me.


Even though Maurice (rhymes with porous) told me

(back in chapter fifteen) that you can always tell dynomiters

by the crescent moons scarred forever on their insteps.