Downtown

The sun, of course, makes no sense today,
like the drunken fucks that just spilled
a pitcher of beer across the sidewalk.
It makes it all come to me, the blindness
that overturns what you’ve kicked
in the ribs, to keep down.
I am trying to cross through traffic,
and why not follow that stream?
It knows the way when it’s lost.
I wanna be that thing that says sorry
without wanting one more thing,
who knows the epiphany of vomit
as it licks it up, the glitter of sun
pissing all over the sidewalk.
I’m trying to let words tell the truth,
those heartless bastards, that could do with
one more, what the hell,
one more chance.

Firepit on Lac Dragon Island

I find the old firepit
that looks ancient.

It’s fifty at most,
a broken bobbin of weed

and blueberry.
Moldy blisters from fire

are spooned away
in a broken bowl

of a skull, fingers sucked
to their stone seeds.

The wind seems to find me.
It circles my arms,

then confuses them with cedars,
it seems, coaling their bitterness,

orange gruel, and crab water
crawling in

the salty beard, spreading
the unnameable colour of lichen.

North Bay Fire 72

The backcountry hasn’t found its way back into rain
for weeks. Fires breathe in dark green between
Lehay and Makobe. Is rain the manifestation of touch?
Tenuous lightening spreading, like the shadows
of low clouds over Maple Mountain?
It feels so much when you barely feel it.
The skin turns spirit.
I’ve followed them on the maps for days.
Despite what we feel, they’re not out of control;
something within’s forming a single path
to all the rivers in the body.

Opeongo

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

The sun rehearsing its,
“where were you last?”
searching, perhaps, for the thing
misplaced,
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
miss
the beautiful inarticulate birds
circling for roadkill
as if the world had always revolved
around something not gone,
just missing?