Category Archives: poem tree
season.
this is how we remember ourselves three hundred days later exposed pipeline in dirt, a wrong turn. fresh as the holes where my eyes had been once, and were, yours on the nape of my neck with hands, in gananoque … Continue reading
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dawn.
a stampede broke the glasses we used for our seeing and drinking, and i was already drunk: my heart bled for a year. on the arm of my couch like it hadn’t your tongue melted mine with the lights from … Continue reading
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weather.
an attraction less halted, more swept with the streets by the salt trucks he tells me it’s been a long year, thinned like the bottoms of socks we would fold on his bed, deflated like bellies emptied for summer, bites … Continue reading
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december poem.
you fall between two alphabetically, a place they have both been before, on bleachers in snow i fall for the drywall, the bottles of wine if you were not you i would reach for wrought iron the gate would swing … Continue reading
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areola.
the flesh was reconnected within days, healed against his urgency, my will a seamless graft protracting his old bruises, tearing at the stitches never sewn on louder nights i’m vacant, more cavity than full, or all i am less chunks … Continue reading
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centre.
after forty days i have no fear of death. the planes lift off from pearson, sky shuts on mississauga in the centre of a highway we walked and we held hands, we were my nightmare soaking in like sinking wheels … Continue reading
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apartments.
too many apartments i haven’t seen lie parallel across the frost, cut like seams of highways fighting for the lake in winter we use him, and cloth to cut the ice on the canal. i don’t go home with writers, … Continue reading
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sticking.
at fourteen we strung telephone cords across our chests, slept in football jerseys two sizes too large, memorized names and were out too late, too young and in the bad part of town transparency reserved itself for later years and … Continue reading
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whistle.
january. we kissed without mouths, you took my hand by the back of my chair in real life a revolution in the darkness planting blood at the scene of the crime – february. i don’t trust where i have not … Continue reading
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leaves.
the grass is a yard now, is shaping itself by the boards of the fence you pick from the garden each morning: vegetables, weeds; you handle the stale clumps of dirt while i watch a sky flattens leaves to old … Continue reading
Filed under poem tree
