You open your eyes; I am watching you.
I am thinking of another life. The wide banks of the river
slivering through Whitehorse, or the glacier grazing
the stippled clouds back from the road, north of Whistler,
the horse’s flank I stroked as you stood behind me in grass,
blazing yellow, hugging your windy, your whistling body.
The bottle of wine from Spain secreted
to the bottom cupboard, the silver mine of pots
and missing lids, like a well, plum and yearning to be drunk.
The kind of man I’m somehow not.
The bough of the tree leaning like an elbow on the window ledge,
and the flurries bleaching it with its breath of ashes.
I hold your face close to mine. We make a mirror.
I speak your name, silently, your breathing unravelling
inside my mouth, scouring my ghostly words.
Something passes through me. I am thinking of another flesh,
a fruit choosing the ground, or like hooves, digging in,
a pomegranate containing many seeds.