yet another wasted day in dundas ontario

softly i see
the horizon
the way from here to there
it paints like a landscape
pushing me back (mom told me not to stare)
and takes a while to grab you,
but does not play in time
no different from the table i used to write
like graffiti, a cloud, or an orgasm
i want to die in public
words are a massacre, one substituted for another
while life sits softly and looks beyond itself

time

time sits like a peculiar thing
as though speaking was both
crime and victim
and silence its persuasion

only endings say nothing
while raising mountains and meaning everything
leaves falling sideways counted
makes the day, so beautiful here outside
if outside is more possible than standing
it calms like a fury
while supposing rain like drops of sunshine
ending on my thigh, like a morning

Dundas, with Sobe's Orange Carrot

try
not being there
it is silent
and like a sacred word
it is not
and cannot be

a place in the country

look at the way the sun grabs and holds a side
the building now made complete
with a bird in play, maybe
and its last time here for a while

trees hide the light and it's weird how they don't
speaking gradually "that everything already is"
and time for me/building/bird is a thing of intensities
and a watching that changes,
making poetry of all that is no more

this ghost that we haunt,
infesting every moment with time is
a scratching, like a pearl to an oyster
this is the defence which is beautiful and necessary

and so everyone jogs together past the building and the tree
forgetting the light as they forget themselves in perpetual song

Dundas