Birds collapse into whips, burst into galaxies.
Everywhere is somewhere else; trees
that stitched together fields admit
they are legs of the wind’s mane
and hooves of planted storms.
A horse takes off, welts of snow on its back.
I ride for a while, holding on to what is left of me.
– ph 13/2/17
I saw all of this before.
I arrived here.
The unwashed river,
Opening with my finger,
Seasoned with bike chains, worms,
My mother’s eyes.
Ditches of greying water,
Almost lovely, that
The body must,
Be the outline of the soul,
Anchor, calloused by
Loosen. stumble, and grab,
Filthy with constant hope.
9/2/17 – New Hamburg, ON
Strange, my feet shiver, but no longer feel wet.
How cold the river is.
How thirsty I’ve become.
7/2/17 – Hamilton, ON
Notices small things,
Apples gutted in
a silver sink,
inside the fist.
Metre rising on
of her hip.
Things chime in
open drawers of empty things,
and lets the body find
what there is,
the thing that
– for Donald Trump
I see the desert. The desert
that sees for me are my arms
that hold her the way I must have
when she came to me. I diid not see
then, the way I do now. Now the
body is cut out from rocket stone.
Still, she is so beautiful in her red dress,
made and fitted with mortar fire, and as it
dries, for she rains down on me,
she comes to me once more.
I love that she matches the flowers
they planted, perfumed with steel and hair.
Oh, what other loveliness blooms under
the speed of glorious light,
eyes eternal as zeros, spoons of fruit,
astonished by this desert truth, that Relativity is
the afterlife, a heartless eternity, bursting
with stars, and cries, and rocket propellent,
forever, a hole’s embrace.
– ph, 31/1/17 Ancaster, ON