This morning, there are no directions; distances, yes,
there, stretching inside the vault of an overcast sky,
and hands-and-knees up to this unopened door.
Here, last night, I listened to leaves of your voice,
strewn on the hallway floor, and a man you once knew.
He was lost, he said, in the neighbourhood, too.
I overheard a conversation once, spliced on a wire.
An alien choir of radio telescopes once conducted
the rustling of galaxies, echoed back to me.
Last night, though, two jets skated on the black ice of
Orion and Andromeda. They circled.
Night thoughts blinked, for them no landfall.
So, I continue to travel the night, a passenger
stuck to a window, pulled by false wakes of dead stars,
and new leaves of falling leaves.
Today, though, here,
this is what the light offers: Walking on
the canopies of trees, rousing nebulas’ scents.
Yes, red birds are dying mid-flight,
the sky is falling a little more.
Earth holds firm to what it can.
– Ancaster, ON – 27/10/16