It didn’t take long
for the kitchen window to bully
the snow into a sea. Seven months locked-up
in an ark, with the beasts chewing inside you.
In February, you were swallowed
by a great white whale, and the beasts eat
through the scurvied lot of you.
Like every seaman, you’re sea-sick
and ignore the north star. You listen
to your heart, dismiss
Reach for the island of May
along your passage, dry land, green heat
of the wet sun on the grass. Let the sea bury
the beast’s dead myths.
Step outside again, and let the north wind
pass through you,
than pass through it.
Be like Shackleton, ignore God;
go back for what matters.
– ph 28/4/17 Toronto, ON