At the green edge
of the Atlantic
on a floor of shells,
like bullet casings,
you found a stone ,
a perfect circle,
partly air,
flat down
the middle.
You peered
Only I saw,
the eye
of a
the jewell.


All I see are lines
that weave endings.
Begging, knee-fallen,
Ninety percent
is us, you know,
particles of light
fossilized in sand.
For the time being,
form the jagged
cuneiform of lakes,
flowing in step with
their shadows.
We will never be here.
Though here,
in these lines
of whitecaps, the hem
of your blue dress,
floating as always.


After I slip in
next to you,
your tiny body
curls like a centipede,
I touch.

I sleep,
though, the picture
you left on the wall does not,
your elbows already
folding into dark wings
and your body weightless,
leaning half-way
into shadow,
perhaps into
a raven
this time.

I stand,
and look over
the sheets,
fallen like
skin from flesh.
I’d go to you,
low as an ant,
to say
that I too see the man
in the bed,
who resembles me.

That, he is a rock
who I want to turn over
and find the insects
that ravens love.
But, he cannot wake.
He’s tried.
He cannot even dream.


Days spent driving north, its roads
ground down to rivers
of gravel
almost flour,
to bare all,
or, at least, tired
of their distance.

The sun rehearsing its,
“where were you last?”
searching, perhaps, for the thing
an undying faith
that once it is pierced,
by the horizon’s arrows of tamaracks,
and disembowels into
the Opeongo,
its beauty will be grasped.

Likewise, they never hear from me, or
I them, but how can any of us
the beautiful inarticulate birds
circling for roadkill
as if the world had always revolved
around something not gone,
just missing?


The concrete keeps everything
in place, except the wind,
the bums,

I walked by the market,
40 centigrade, still the picture
of heat on your January breath,
water being

I pulled in, caught in
the ropes of rain on the driveway
at the edge of
an island, I catch the earth
caving in

I pray that in the morning
worms will have made it through,
drowned the sidewalks,
knowing that there were only
moments in which
to breathe.

Driving Away

When I try to replace you
with another thought,
you say to me,
I could try being
that small fox you saw this morning,
hurtling from the woods.
Then, when I notice,
through the gravel smoke,
that you’ve spotted me again,
I’d ricochet back
into the forest
of your mind.

From My Car in Late Spring

I’m not one who will say,
“This is the name of the flower,”
so the petals flocking up from the river
behind the trees are only a beauty
I cannot name (like, of course,
the other beauties).
Wonder names it though,
hectic shadows
at the intersection of Wyndham and Finch,
shifting between their lives
of pink and white.
They trick me into, then out of
this Spring of existence, as if it might be,
just for this moment,
a feather struggling to carry
its weight of light.

This muteness

This muteness

that lipreads you
on the dumb cuneiform
of memory
That invisible jet
at the speed of sound,
its past tense
its gone again.
I wish there were
a saviour
to forsake me
for this feeble
But even God
is known for
his love
of words
that must not
be said.
I wish I were deaf.
Not hear the silence
that says,
Paul, forget me.
could forget
my name,
I was.