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Early summer

March 9, 2015

In bygone cul-de-sac, upon
old pavement, early summer fun:
I kissed the green snake’s copper lips
and shed my skin beneath the sun;

I tumbled and I laughed, on trips
and sprawls, my back chose pavement chips
as riders. Not to be outdone,
my heart and mind the world equipped.

In sunlit forests, earlier
that afternoon, my soul unfurled:
I kissed in secret canopy,
and desperately I held to her.

Of old and new, in street and tree,
my soul in you, your soul in me.

Ancient cedar, mighty pine

February 17, 2015

Oh ancient cedar of the valley deep
instruct me in your ways of peace and light,
and mighty pine be with me in my sleep.

Instruct me in your arms, of earthen beast,
of silver fish, of bird in flight,
oh ancient cedar of the valley deep.

Instruct me in the void, of how to weep,
of how to live in darkness, love the night,
oh mighty pine be with me in my sleep.

I’d like to breathe your scent and let it seep
into my pores until it cleans my blight,
oh ancient cedar of the valley, deep

into my soul I want to draw you: deep
into the winter of my heart. You fight,
oh mighty pine, beside me in my sleep,

but when awake, I am not evergreen.
So be with me new life when it is light,
oh ancient cedar in the valley deep,
and mighty pine be with me in my sleep.

10:00 am. At a work meeting. Time slows down.

January 28, 2015

Somewhere beyond the books a printer whines,
and in the mustard-coloured pipes a bird
cajoles me for escape, but I am trapped.
My ugly orange pen scrawls out these lines
pretending to take notes–Oh take me now!
His voice drones on; the meeting drags; my eyes
glaze over; tiredness steals me; I am gone.
“Becoming One,” “The Transformation of
a Heart,” and “Marriage Revolution” stare
at me and mock my intellect as I’m
already subject to a damning crush
of mental dryness / desert / washed out / cracked
and sieving sand. I rub my eyes and some
comes out and sighs upon the table–AH!
my name’s been called!–ignore me, please!–oh Lord!–
please leave me be!–oh God!–oh good. We’ve moved
on to my neighbour. Thank the fates. A sigh.
I will survive. I will diminish.

To see you thrive

January 16, 2015


You speak upon your daytime bed,
through aching gut and pounding head,
“Forget me, dear, I will survive.”
But oh, I’ll pray, and oh, I’ll strive,
to see you thrive,
to see you thrive.


In living graves, you blameless lie,
and crushed by Earth, you softly cry,
“Just pass me by, I will survive.”
But oh, I’ll fight, and oh, I’ll strive,
to see you thrive,
to see you thrive.

A clear day at work.

January 13, 2015

The mountains aren’t so far away
on clear days in the valley. Seems like I
could walk there in an hour, studying
the crystalline decor of snow upon
their sunlit sides–

but then it fades,

and into twilight stretches out
the road. The mountains’ golden skin
turns cool and blue and I can feel
my strides grow shorter in the night.


December 22, 2014

You are the library,
and I, at the age of nine,
wandered through your aisles alone
but never lonely,
finding myself
books upon books to
lose myself
in later, at home.

You are a tall glass of milk
that I, at the age of eleven,
drank proudly at the dinner table, so
pleased to love
something that was good
for me.

You are the blackberry brambles and
the wet dirt sticks
worn dry and clean,
that were as swords and fantasy worlds to me,
even still in middle school:
worlds of imagination
and adventure.

You are the murmur
of voices
in the still
hush behind the curtains;
“Purpose,” you glimmered,
“Be who you were meant to be,” you whispered;
and I, at seventeen,
felt my heart thrum.

You are the mindless company
and favourite comfort
of television-on-computer-screen,
that I, at the age of twenty,
felt to be home:
the weight of blankets,
the weight of tiredness,
the pleasant absence of weight.

You are my voice,
and I, at an age to grow,
speak with a richness
and a diction
beyond my comprehension:

You are the soft bed of loam
at the beginning of all things,
where I, at an age to know
only that I wish to know you,
lie close and open my eyes
to find you in backwards time.

This happiness could not have lasted. It was too much.

December 5, 2014

Tonight, my sopping bones melt through my skin–
here I will fade into the strips of soak–
enormity within their spongeing lines.
Enormity, and so it goes: a spot,
now spreading on my sheet, of sloppish mulch,
of squelching mush, of flesh and bone and blood
removed of form and shape: of hair and heart–
magnificent upon a time–now gruel
in greys expanding on an empty bed;
these bones were once a church, this blood was life;
yet now all fades in drying, grotesque lines.
A year ago, the bed was made the same,
no shape misplaced, no organ present but
dripped liquid on a crusty, oozing sheet.
Until tonight, the room had sat forgot,
sat gone in memory, but now the cold
enormity of aging porridge riles,
long trapped beneath sandpaper skin; the hot
enormity of sundered dreams recall
sheets grey and cracking, soaked and seeping, time
seems backwards, now, and here I lie; tonight,
not only will my bones retreat from flesh,
end wriggling on the bed like post-rain worms,
slop, fall, and creep, but it won’t serve to last:
sometime–in years, perhaps–I’ll grow anew.
Of this, I’m sure: my skeleton will grow,
form up, solidify; of this, I’m sure:
At present, I am melting on this bed.
Life leaves me, waterfalls away, bleeds out,
in sheets of hungry age it leeches, drips,
falls to the floor and proves that in the end,
enormity is nothing but a lie.


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