We are so much
alike, you misplaced, me
put in mine,

your dress of dirt,
me, a suit
washed in

carnival flies. Maybe
we deserve nothing
other than

each other,
you who
delivered me

here, me
delivering you there,
I say,

putting words in your mouth,
worms rhyming
silly rhyme

glistening in
our heads.

The Problem with Death

It’s not death because
only you feel your absence

And the birds translate
the broken windows’ whistling.

It’s death because
only you feel your absence

And the birds don’t understand
the broken windows’ song

is just the wind.

Talk to Me, Listen

Something tells me, I should live.
For what? Every day, I feel in me
the words dwindle,
and hear the new tongue of the breath,
as it meets me in the elevator,
or at the light when it’s gone yellow,
and then red. Breathing is involuntary,
it mouths, again and again. But the heart
is not. It is the sun.
The breeze speaks for it when it is gone.
Wait, it says.

Beauty Lake Rd.

All afternoon
and near night
this deer
inside me
scenting for
its place
to die and lay
deer, this
we search
the sky
for it, or
the light
of each place,
to enter earth
’til finally
we see,
our tracks
to take us
there, the bird
that turns
air into


I never called you, did I,
before you died. Maybe,
I knew too much, already.
We made love
in that TV-lit motel room,
in Vermillion Bay,
left my glasses by the bedside
digital clock, afterwards,
as you and I lay together,
I saw through a part
of you: a few strands
of your hair, the blurry channel
I left on mute, cracked,
but too bright, too.

Love Poem Left By An Unrequited Refugee

– for Donald Trump

I see the desert. The desert
that sees for me are my arms
that hold her the way I must have
when she came to me. I diid not see
then, the way I do now. Now the
body is cut out from rocket stone.
Still, she is so beautiful in her red dress,
made and fitted with mortar fire, and as it
dries, for she rains down on me,
she comes to me once more.
I love that she matches the flowers
they planted, perfumed with steel and hair.
Oh, what other loveliness blooms under
the speed of glorious light,
eyes eternal as zeros, spoons of fruit,
astonished by this desert truth, that Relativity is
the afterlife, a heartless eternity, bursting
with stars, and cries, and rocket propellent,
forever, a hole’s embrace.

– ph, 31/1/17 Ancaster, ON