Woodland

It is raining on us.
Except the tent protects
us with its dry chamber
of oxygen. The tent is
shaped like a lander,
in search of life, in which
to communicate. You are
still unconscious from all
the lakes it took to get
here, wearing my orange
Calgary Flames toque, like
those liners you see
under space helmets.
I’ve awaken, visited
by a woman explaining
she loves me in a language
that means something else.
Falling asleep again,
I listen to the tap-tap tap
of the rain play on the dome
of the tent, let go upon us
from the woods above.

– Queer Lake, Algonquin

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