Lake Huron

I choose love. It was simple;
light arrived on the river;
branches opened out before me.
It was easy. I followed them. It was faith.
There was an angel, the kind
echoing the birds we hear too close
to earth to see, who are fists of creeks,
hymnals bodies cannot open.

The divine is the apple in the hand;
love is the body of the worm inside.
Love is a bullet in the brain.
And, hope is the body that bleeds,
using up the end of time to end its reach.
It is lightness bearing every weight.

And, here am I, a body and supposedly a soul
on Lake Huron, an emptiness filling with rain,
ferns kneeling at my knees, and fingers making
no distinction between holding and releasing
the decay that still, for no reason at all, sings out
into the ordinary.

One in the Morning

I read one poet, then think of another,
And then from her, another.
You say you dislike poems
about poetry. I do, as well, but tell me,
how many poems about poetry
can you show me are about poetry?
Think about every author of the Old Testament,
stone mazes of words, their numinous millennias,
yet forbidden to annunciate or to spell out,
for the faithless eyes,
the full name of their beloved.
Now, think about the plague of crickets
outside the window, and I, turning from
the moth-glow of the computer on the table,
enter the unlit yard to listen as they
line up their utterances on the strands of reeds,
fanned out along the creases of the river,
so that I may hear your name mentioned
by darkness.

– 18/5/17 Ancaster, ON, Canada