Days spent driving north, its roads
ground down to rivers
of gravel
almost flour,
to bare all,
or, at least, tired
of their distance.

The sun rehearsing its,
“where were you last?”
searching, perhaps, for the thing
an undying faith
that once it is pierced,
by the horizon’s arrows of tamaracks,
and disembowels into
the Opeongo,
its beauty will be grasped.

Likewise, they never hear from me, or
I them, but how can any of us
the beautiful inarticulate birds
circling for roadkill
as if the world had always revolved
around something not gone,
just missing?


The concrete keeps everything
in place, except the wind,
the bums,

I walked by the market,
40 centigrade, still the picture
of heat on your January breath,
water being

I pulled in, caught in
the ropes of rain on the driveway
at the edge of
an island, I catch the earth
caving in

I pray that in the morning
worms will have made it through,
drowned the sidewalks,
knowing that there were only
moments in which
to breathe.

Driving Away

When I try to replace you
with another thought,
you say to me,
I could try being
that small fox you saw this morning,
hurtling from the woods.
Then, when I notice,
through the gravel smoke,
that you’ve spotted me again,
I’d ricochet back
into the forest
of your mind.

From My Car in Late Spring

I’m not one who will say,
“This is the name of the flower,”
so the petals flocking up from the river
behind the trees are only a beauty
I cannot name (like, of course,
the other beauties).
Wonder names it though,
hectic shadows
at the intersection of Wyndham and Finch,
shifting between their lives
of pink and white.
They trick me into, then out of
this Spring of existence, as if it might be,
just for this moment,
a feather struggling to carry
its weight of light.

This muteness

This muteness

that lipreads you
on the dumb cuneiform
of memory
That invisible jet
at the speed of sound,
its past tense
its gone again.
I wish there were
a saviour
to forsake me
for this feeble
But even God
is known for
his love
of words
that must not
be said.
I wish I were deaf.
Not hear the silence
that says,
Paul, forget me.
could forget
my name,
I was.

The Birds that Summer

And the muscles of wind
loosening everything,
though I knew you when the sun stuck
to all of it,
and light, having traveled 96 million miles,
brought your face close. Still,
you shivered at night.
You were so thin then.
I feel the sunlight here and there today; I hold on
to what is leaving.
I try to forget how things change.
I try to remember the birds that summer
that somehow to make it it back.


Wild birds, this morning,
the shapes of fists
on the steering wheel, steal up
from the Nith
and crisscross closely
my speeding car.
It seems the heart must
bear the winter,
then drift up from a river
before the wild bird
will take to the wind.

Little Clouds on the Ocean

You’re in the bathroom emptying my semen
from your body. On the bed, I lay stripped,
my cock, wormed in light, burrowing
into the tangle of other fractures, the veins that orbit back
into darkness.
I stare up into the ceiling; below,
it imitates a fish, pulsing to breathe an air it cannot breathe.
It cowers between my legs; blood exiles
to the brain, as if blood is the ejaculate
of this second, outer heart. All my life,
I have been giving birth to this animal between my life,
but the world is only deep
and immense for a time; your legs around me,
like quotes, fit only briefly,
exclaiming upwards: we are falling,
sinking into the shallowness of the night air,
and into the sheets of our separate dreams,
fading, cum stuck to our flesh, like weak glue,
like the reflections of little clouds on the ocean.