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A rogue moose wanders into a suburb near Quebec city, tramples lawns and gardens, stumbles in and out of a swimming pool, is tracked by three gun toting heads of family who shoot it down just as a school bus goes by wherein a little girl is trilling “Three Little Kittens.” Thus begins No Grave For This Place. Here “streets are landing strips / for planes that will never arrive,” the dead “descend / the steps of prefab houses / champagne flutes in their hands,” and a pack of cats “throws itself on the electric fences / surrounding our inner lives.” Quinn’s voice will resonate with all those who have, by association or from experience, tasted the cultural barrenness that can underlie civilized life.
