Sometimes I think I may move my eyes
the way a dog might,
my chin resting on my crossed forearms,
humouring everyone’s unintelligible language
with an upturned flicker of my pupils,
somewhere between a roll and a glower.
Resigned to the inability to communicate.
There’s a telescoping that takes place
when I talk to the world,
a narrowing – two faces,
plucked from the wire,
elected judges of every emotional
decision, every ill-advised
step in the wrong direction.
In this well-lit expanse,
we put forth fragments of what we used to,
put forth the short form of a balm,
or more often condemn
each other to the kind of crookedness
felt in a classroom. A bad mark. A rumour.
When I was small I let a goal in on the playground
and wept.
You become the hum of a streetcar
on a stalled line before giving way
to the whoosh of an oncoming train,
swallowed.
(The car hangs, suspended
for a moment,
then crawls to a start.)
We all line up,
our Achilles’ heels praying
for razors and whiskey.
If you’re willing to limp in,
you can lead. Another lap
round the yard.
On sleepless nights spent in unfamiliar rooms,
your songs teach me lessons in geography.
We remember thee, Zion.
The slow world is turning so small,
so distinct. My hand on the sheet. Your giant teeth
peeking through your lips. In the black,
I turn the map of your body
sideways and awake,
singing.
When the windows in the downtown Vancouver skyline began to look a little too much like screens,
I started using notebooks again.
A word was once a thing that was
banged out; now
it clacks clacks clacks
like steel on trestle,
obsolete.
Poetry for people
who don’t read poems.
An image of a town,
a province,
a country,
a girl.
I carry a bag in my hand
until the hand grows cold
then switch.
