2017

so ends its many-fingered chord
ever-counting its audience

perplexed
leave via riot

7th 11th 13th
no no none of these

aftermath
we swindle down corner thugs

yes the usual please
just the usual

whose composer tried
oh how

as ever
tried

sweet yorewist

sweet yorewist
pinksome fog outspread behind me

wander unreflecting into its
dense mandelmurk

each shrouded menhir speaks
in furrowed tales

the stone of which
is the greater dreamlore

what bendsome hereafter comes
may happen nonetheless

i stumble backwards
unsighted into it

Story

I confess nothing because
I need to confess nothing

Whatever it is it is
Written indelibly on my slackness

You can see it woven beneath
All-too-thin skin

This is why you
Don’t make eye contact

If you did you might
See a different story

advent

alas whose body
at toe is ochre & gold &
crisp wrapping paper

again
you could not last the year

i will lie down amidst you
watch the sky
an expectation

jesus christ
holy comet of fire most bright

the participle of man’s desiring
arrives to hydrate
regardless

we have never met
we have never stopped meeting

so i wait in your bones
till even these coals become dust

& some grey janitor
turns us into cloud

Mississauga VI

Part Of A Series Of Poems About Mississauga

o mississauga
      i remember her vocabulary
      her cadence & inflection
      thick with traffic
      running nowhere

o mississauga
      does this departure gladden
      are her streets tinted gold
      is the house i built filled
      with gratitude & laughter

o mississauga
      just down the highway
      i thought once perhaps you could
      be calmed be settled be okay
      (you could not)

o mississauga
      another follows in my wake
      a fraud a fake a not-quite
      but he pays his taxes & mows his lawn &
      that’s good enough

The Beach

She lies
on the beach

She lies
on the beach
on a towel the
colour of sand

She lies
on the beach
on a towel
made of sand
becoming the
colour of sand

She lies
on the beach
she is made
of sand
water takes
her bit by bit

She is
the beach
water takes
and gives back

She is
the beach

Of The Margins

who is splashed green growing
between sidewalk & street

who makes soil so
even concrete blooms

who knows your breath
its percentage

who is not much
is everything

who is before & is after &
will grow here & where

who sees but doesn’t
least expects

Dream’s Dream

In the dream your room is full of flame and
I leave my fingerprints on the knob and
I leave my footprints on the hardwood and
I look and look and I cannot find you and
I ask myself if I need to leave you and
I ask myself if I should go with you

In the dream’s dream
You are standing on the front lawn and
Your lungs fill up with clean air and
Your skin uncindered smells of detergent and
Your bones hidden and flesh-clothed and
You don’t slip through my fingers