Always anxious at gatherings;
Moon slips slowly into darkness
One silver sliver at a time
Does not wish to inconvenience anyone
Ochestrates a slow fade
(slips) out the door,
Into a still world we do not know
Peeks back in
Shows enough face
That we do not worry
Re-enters the gathering for our goodbyes.
Repeats
Cyclical
Always

Moons full face
Is not the common state
Our knowing so incomplete
I want to ask;
Show me that still world
You leave us to rest in
What does the darkness of your sky hold
Recount your lunar dreams for me
Those thoughts
That keep you safe
From all these greedy eyes

To the boys who thought they were being funny but we're really just cruel
and the girls, who treated my hope like a punchline to a joke they never let me in on;
Last night I drempt I was lynched:
Your hands were the ones that strung me up
Your faces,
filled with the snarling lips of wolves-
Crowded beneath my swinging feet
Your tore me to pieces.
I drempt
You chased me through the woods
and along a beach
where the sun
was always just about to set
I sought safety from the presence of strangers
but you came at me anyway:
Hungry mouths of predators
you dragged me away ****** and screaming
bystanders just as silent as ever
even in my dreams
there are no bodies
that provide protection.
I have not felt this helpless in years.
I have not felt this scared in ages.
I have not thought of  you...
                       any of you...
   In so long....
Why?
Do you still have this power over me?
How?
Is the sight of you
in a crowded public space
where you probably won't even notice me
still enough
to twist my body inside out
To leave me trembling and shivering
in the middle of summer
I thought I was free of this?
But in my nightmares
it is still your laughing eyes
Your jackal lips
That fill the face
of everything that tries to consume me,
be it man or beast.

The fingers
that try to dissect me
Are yours
The bodies
that hold me down
Are all yours
Please
        Hasn't it been long enough?
All I wish for
Is peace
And to forget;
what your faces look like- all twisted with taunting
the specific sound of your hateful voices
the touch of your hands,
                        where they shouldn’t be,
                                         the things you say about it afterwards....  
Last night
         I drempt
that you ate me.
              With the teeth  of a hell-hound
                                      you  split me open
                                                      reduced me to mangled, shredded piece of meat
             but I could not die
you smiled at me
               with ****** lips
                                  over what used to be my body
                                                              and I could not even howl
                        because you had torn out my throat.

[Tell me now, that is was still all just as joke]

You,
monster in my clothes,
how boring you are;
always
           so sad
always
             so withdrawn.
Your misery
-is not interesting.
Monster,
with my face,
who made you?
Who
gave you permission
to parade around wearing my name?
Who
told you
that  you could undo my life like this?
Monster,
with my teeth,
stop biting my tongue,
stop leaving my cheeks bruised

Stop hurting this body;
you,
monster walking in my skin,
do not own her
[despite all appearances]

Give me something else to write about,
no decent person
wants to indulge my madness
give me something wholesome to tell them instead.

Give me,
a strangers smile,
give me a fox’s baby teeth

Give me
    the tree
               in your grandmother’s back garden
                                               heavy
                                          with the plump bodies of plums
give me
      you child hands; sticky with their juice, in the tall the grass
                      give me the pit
                                          worried clean by your tongue.
Give me
    your mother,
               waltzing barefoot through the moonlight on the kitchen floor.
Give me
    your father,
              humming to himself as he plays with your baby sister in the late summer light.
Give me
           your brother’s first skinned knee
Give me
         the scar, on your left cheek; your first lesson in the territorial nature of nesting season
Give me
       the family roadtrip
                       that you took every year to visit your grandparents
                                                    until you all grew too old to have the time...
                                          or the patience
Give me
        something new to write about
something
I can look at objectively
             something
       I can call lovely
                        because I do not know how sad it makes you.

Lavender blooms
opens herself up for the solstice,
puts spring to sleep.

Lavender
Freshens her house
brightens her garden
She invites summer in,
dusts off the patio furniture
sits drinking raspberry lemonade in the late light.

Lavender
naps beside the lake
softens the hot days of July
reminds
this wild world
of the importance of rest.

I turn to you
     lips red with love
                      such a violent pleasure,
it drips from me in streams.
Reaching for you
I am undone
                  collapse
a wave
abandoning
rage on the shore,
leaves bowing
                                          “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry”
I was unprepared,
no one told me it would be so hard to be human.
I did not know
that remaining soft
was a daily choice,
kindness an hourly one,
empathy and honesty
needing to be chosen
again
again
again
again
again
every moment...
If only
I had stayed
curled up
               /with no body/
in that deep place
where we
are all formless.
But I
wanted sunlight
I wanted
flowers
and the soft songs of bees
I wanted
arms,
a wet tongue,
I wanted
knees,
and toenails,
and freckles,
and knuckles,
and eyelashes
wanted
all of this strange, cumbersome beauty.
If I had been told
this was the price;
so much heart it beats to get out of you,
the unrelenting need to be loved,
so many words that my tongue grows swollen,
raw skin and blood in my palms,
skinned knees,
lost teeth,
the confusion of something I think is love,
the inability to make the people you care about stay,
learning to say goodbye,
learning to let the same person go
a thousand times over
because their is always
one more thing
you wanted to say to them
If only I had been told all of this first,
I would have forgone this human form
chosen something more fleeting,
perhaps a pollinator;
Holly Blue,
a few beautiful months
of sunshine
and flowers
and summer breezes,
feet small enough to rest on the softness of petals
to taste the sweet secrets of spring’s blooms
before the sky gathers me back into her arms.
But I did not know,
jumped in blind and laughing
waiting for miracles
dreaming of bird’s songs
and warm arms
to wrap around other bodies.
                                                                Yes
                                                                   Yes
                                                                     Yes
                                                    I have seen miracles!
                                               I have heard the birds!
                                 Been warmed by so many other bodies
                   I have been given, so much more than I could ever have imagined.
                                                         But at what cost?
                                                             Look at me!
                                                                                                  lips
                                           teeth
                                                                              hands
                                                          chest
                                                          all stained red;
                 the metallic taste of love
heavy in the air
              too much
                       too much
                                      too much
                                                             it pours out of me.
                          We were not taught what to do with this.
I turn to you,
              overwhelmed with love
and you cry out
             perhaps in fear
                                          perhaps in joy
                            and in that moment
             I question
                                                     why why why
                everything.
I pray
           to be made simple again,
                                       return me,
                                                       to that deep place
                           where all things rest
                                      wait formless,
                                                  till they are called back into the light
                                  I promise;
                                                         next time
                                                I grow hungry for the sun,
                                                                I will choose a creature
                                             who does less harm.

How
can you be both
so confident
                      and so unsure?
Making jokes
                           when you want to make confessions;
      please...
allow me to accept
    the gift of your honesty.
I know,
    it is precious
                  I know also,
that it can be so heavy....
I could carry it for you awhile,
                 if you like...

Feed me
    spoonfuls of this blue sky.
Slice up this glorious day
                   I want to taste it,
    want to burn my tongue on it;
feel it in my mouth for days.
I want,
to swallow it
to carry it around in me
                                               - this salt and pine,
                                                  these green leaves
                                                                        above grey stones
                                                  the white of your smile,
                                                               the warm brown of your skin
                                                       the soft colour of your eyes
Feed me,
   the taste of your laughter,
                 drizzle it
            on my tongue
     like honey
                                            make me sticky with sweetness,
                                     under the suns playful gaze,
                             leave me smelling of wildflowers
               help me be as gentle
   as honey bees.                                                                         Let me feast,
                                                                          on the sound of the waves
                                                          the sound of your voice calling
                                               from somewhere down the beach
                                      as I run
                             open armed
      into this abundance
of light.

Did you know,
that the bird outside your window,
says that you
are his favourite audience?
                                                     [at least in these freshly lit moments of morning]
He tells me
he sings
that you might find happiness
                        and fulfillment,
confesses,
that he wakes early, opens himself with song
                just to remind you
   to start your day
always smiling.
The bird
outside your window
told me he loves you,
and that is why he stays
and I told him,
                      So do I
                                So do I.

I remember
the dusty taste of summer,
prickly heat
dry twigs
and curling fingers of fern
twisted in my hair
and once
a bumble-bee
wrapped in a curl at the base of my neck
untangled
by the gentle,
brave hands of my mother
[How heroic, our parents seemed to us once]

I remember
furtive harvest
of raspberries,
huckleberries,
salmon berries,
blackberries,
from neighbour's yards,
from patches along the slow trickling creek at the bottom of the park
from the paths through the university gardens

I remember
teeth cracking when my head hit the river bottom,
the gardens we collected under fingernails
(that our mothers looked at with horror,
sent us to scrub down the drain)
I remember skinned knees,
monkey bar callouses ,
thistle ****** on my big toe,
broken glass
ground into my heel
         - father pried out as I howled, fox-throated and wild-eyed

I remember
birds nest cut out of my hair,
the way my father pulled it back into tight braids after that,
with promises to keep it tame
-childhood defiance; letting it curl wild
down my neck
around my ears:
I wanted birds to feel safe near me.

I remember
popsicles melting down arms
fingers stuck together,
chewing the sticks
until they splinter in our mouths,
the familiar taste of that soggy wood.

I remember the boys
teasing beside the river
trying to scare me
with beetles,
crickets
loud mouthed frogs,
and finally a snake
that I wore in my hair till it was time to hike back
I remember
how they teased me with love songs after that;
taunted me,
with the softness I rebelled against.

I remember
how big the sky seemed in those days
how close,
how attainable
how big and bright
the milky way seemed
stretched out above the cabin porch.

I remember
how everything grew wild
and rambling
during those long,
hot,
August days
[especially us children]

Passing migration
the rounded back
of quiet leviathan
glide past us
around the point
and out of view
moving along the backdrop of mountains

Primal knowledge
hunger for home
pulling them up
through the sea
across the world.

How I envy
their conviction
their absolute faith in instinct.

White fingers comb the beach
as each wave breaks

frantic murmuring
a thousand questions asked of the pebbles
an urgency
we,
at least,
are familiar with.

Over and over
these foamy hands
run up to our feet
searching
searching
searching
placing
and pulling
rearranging the whole world.

I am astounded
when I notice
the way a face changes
over the course of the first day;
the lines softening
each freckle becoming familiar.

Suddenly
this face means something
holds so much warmth;
no longer the cold portrait of a stranger.

Always,
you become more beautiful
the more you open your heart up to me,

The Kelp
bends at the waist
surrendering to the current't touch.

They bow
                 bow
             bow
Devout in their worship,
their watery creeds,
do not reach my ears
caught up on the light
that sits above their heads
I can only imagine what they ask of their gods.

I
see only
their translucent hands
raised in prayer
wavering
so urgent is their need to give praise.

I
see only
the way the rocks
cross themselves
with these forests of worshiping arms.

They work themselves into a frenzy
as the tide comes in

Hallelujah!
                        Hallelujah!

           Hallelujah!
                                             Hallelujah!
Jubilation in crescendo.

"Here
   comes the water!
              Mother ocean
         giver of life!
Watch her kiss the sun
                 Holy Father
how he warms our soft heads with blessings!"

Watch
these marine gardens
settle
into more solemn prayers
as the water rises
over
their outstretched fingers.

Maybe,
we will both still be saved
from this nameable thing,
from this well-known disaster
that we have failed a million and one times to walk away from.

If I know
what it is,
if I
can so easily
carry it's name in my mouth,
why
is it so hard
to shake it off?

To leave it shivering
at the feet of the mountains,
where I go to face wolves
always half-hoping I won;t come back down

To sink it
tied in knots around stones and shells and beach glass
into these deep tide pools
where I linger to think about drowning

Perhaps,
it is this knowing
that makes it so hard to let go of,
that gives it it's power to stay,
it's ability
to appear so commonplace.

Every time
I say it's name
it grows root
that reach down my throat
anchoring themselves
on my very bones.

Heavy bodied,
the magnolias crowd together,
open pink lips in bliss,
exhale praise.

The whole tree,
bends at the waist before her gods;
sunlight
rain
earth
equinox,
she grows hundreds of petals for each,
I cannot count them all.

Pink prayers
fall at my feet
as I walk home;
springs most decadent blessings
- I tuck them in my pocket
                       I may need, to borrow their litanies of gratitude,
              worship has been hard for me recently
but the day's grow longer,
the light
tangles in my soft curls
and the magnolias
dress the streets in delicate hymns.
I
am remembering how to smile
just for myself
and who says that this
is not worship?

This spring
comes too early
you do not trust it.

Even though it is what you have been craving for months,
you do not let yourself get comfortable.

You know
this light
this warmth
this freshness
are all fleeting.
A false sense of spring,
a cruel joke
that winter loves to play on us.

See?
Already,
it starts to recede
only to reappear
once you have given up on it.

Sagebrush body
I
catch fire
in the summer heat;
cover the valley
with heady incense.

Rustling,
crackling,
the downturned faces of dry leaves
suddenly bursting
into colour
motion
sound;
the last
ecstatic throws of life.

I light up
the dusty dusk of August.

You sit
rocking on your front porch,
watch me burn up.
Watch this spread,
amber glow
eating up the dry summer  bodies
of fields.
Listen,
to the foxes holler-
paws burning on hot ground.
Watch
the singed outlines of crows
gather above.

You
turn your back
travel up the stairs to bed,
draw close the curtains
as the first distant growl
grows in the sky’s throat.

You fall asleep
knowing
that I
will burn myself out
and tomorrow
there will be rain.

One loon
flies low
along the line separating sky and water,
wingtips
skimming the settled surface of the sea.

Alighting on the water,
she raises her neck
to accept the the morning’s offering
of sunlight.

I call out to her
she
turns her head
pauses -
quizzical
that I know her voice,
but realizing I am only a stranger
she turns away.

Sanctifies
herself
with this blessed water.
Trusts the sea
to gift her with abundance.

[She
is not separate from her gods,
she lives among them]

Stillness of dawn

The smooth skin of the beach lays untouched,
except for one path of seagull’s prints.
Early morning rituals,
you see it now
preening out on the water,
perched amongst the bull kelp,
bulbous heads bobbing
like lazy seals.

The tidal streams
stretch fingers into the undisturbed sand-
sketching,
in the early light,
abstract portraits of the mountains.

Those monolithic muses,
still cozy in their vaporous covers.
The sun
wakes them gently,
trickling warmth
across their broad shoulders
and down curled spines.

Lakeside
I cast my line
leave it trailing in the glittering water.
Lean back
I catch up with the sun;
old friend
returning for this new season,
I settle into his presence
sway slightly in the spring breeze,
breathe
softly breathe;
deep and relaxed
for the first time in months.
Tug on the line;
I draw it up
out of the water,
examine the gift
the lake has given me-
write down these words
allow them to bless me
set them back down in the rippling pool.-
Cast my line again,
far,
it snags
on Raven’s wings;
shake it loose.
a few feathers drift down
I press them between pages,
wait for them to turn into poems.
Pick up my net
throw it high,
spread wide like a mother’s arms;
it wraps up the tops of trees,
cradles nests still under construction
-pull it down gently-
baptismal shower of pine needles and arbutus bark,
Thank you
                      thank you
                                                thank you.
Drop it
sink it to the bottom on the lake,
let myself lose sight of it;
I am learning to let go of control.
Draw it back up once the wind changes,
catch glimmering glimpses
glint of scales
coloured stones
lost teeth;
songs
held in the water’s throat,
sung in a thousand wild languages.
Take only
what you absolutely need,
one for each hand
-to keep me grounded-
one under my tongue,
that I may translate all this
with clarity.
Put all these lush words
in my pockets.
Pack away the net
and the pole.
Offer the fragrant prayer of gratitude
allow peace
to take my hand
and lead me
out of the woods,
away from the lake
and back home.

How easy it is,
to fade away into nothingness
with all these people around you.

How tempting it is,
to forget your own name,
to melt into the rock you are resting on,
to disperse yourself
like wind
into the spaces   between   all    of     these     conversations,
filling up the      g  a  p  s  
that follow behind these hurried words for other people.
How soothing it is
to rest briefly
in the sound of a stranger's laughter;
a secret you stumbled upon by embracing stillness.

How shapeless one feels
resting here
beneath the trees
tracing the path the branches take to reach the sky.

How this body,
seems to blue around the edges;
worn away by the soft caress of the grass.

7am
and it is darker than I like to be awake for.

The streets
are emptier than I have seen them in a long time.

It's an odd feeling...

Finding yourself alone
right in the heart of the city,
all of the lights
-still out
the sun
-still slumbering,
the birds
-still south.

In the quiet streets,
you start to find yourself again

There is so much space
for thought
in this dim emptiness preceding the dawn

You are happy
you chose not to sleep through this.

Empty houses
scattered along the line of the shore;
a buffer for the wind
as it roars up from the sea
to wash over the island.

But don't worry,
this
is not a ghost town,
it is by no means barren or desolate;

In one house,
a whole family of otters have taken up residence on the sundeck-
webbed feet resting on the glass table
tails knocking coasters to the floor
gramma, curled up and napping on the best seat.

In another.
the mice
have built their nest in a mailbox
conveniently left open
soon
it's delicate painted flowers
will receive a whole new kind of delivery.

Starlings
have overrun the whole upper floor
of the small yellow house teetering in the edge of the cliffs
they swoop
in and out of the broken attic window,
the whole frame creaking
as it swells with their singing.

The canoes,
lying on their sides next to the dock
have been turned into permanent tide-pools
shelter for the delicate frolicking arms of anemones
and the hard-shelled scuttling *****.

The coast,
is quickly reclaiming
the stakes we tried to make in her.

Who
is to tell me,
that these
small
tranquil
things
are not worth saying?

Why
do you insist
that poetry
is to be saved
for grander discourse than this;
                                                   -simply
                                                       thanking the rain
                                                           for cleansing me
                                                                 of my resentment.

When my grandmother dies,
I hope they fill her casket with flowers.
So that the last time we see her,
she is nestled in amongst
the delicate feathered petals of mountain bluet
haloed by the bright yellow of birdsfoot
the length
of her soft
decaying body
is caressed by the long stalks of bottle brush
and bog candle
so that we can imagine her,
splayed out in a warm field
on the outskirts of St Johns
laughing in the sunlight
the weight
of such a long life,
of mothering so many children,
melting away
into the warm red soil.

I hope the service
is held in a small white church
with all the windows thrown open;
the clear air and the sunlight
tumbling down onto our heads,
onto her lightly clasped hands,
onto her soft  lips...

I hope they read poems for her
play light happy songs for her
I hope
everyone remembers to tell her
they love her.
I will ask,
that they bury her somewhere
with a good view of the stars,
lay her to rest where the wind
blows the smell of the ocean over her,
and she can admire the sunrise
under the arms of a gentle Alder.

I hope we remember
that she has loved
so deeply
that she has laughed
and lost
and been so unbearably human
all of her life
even when she has been quiet
even as she has cared for us.

I hope we remember
what a resilient woman she is
but also how tender.
How new she once was,
to love
and to it’s touch.

And when I
am someone’s grandmother
I hope they remember
that even I,
was once somebody’s lover.

Aboard this wide
lumbering beast,
we pass through miles of mist
Fog rising of the sea;
a long warm exhale
leaving our hair and our coats damp.

In our insulated passage
the trees hardly notice us
these hearty coastal forests
lost in thought
staring out over hte dark water,
staring back across centuries.

I wonder
what the eyes of these pine have seen
how many times
have the delighted in the breaching of a humpback,
watched with amusement
as the fat seals sun themselves on the rocks,
bulbous bodies glistening and jostling above the water
or held their breath
s they feel the encroaching silence
that precedes the armada of black fins
slicing smoothly through the glassy water.

Everyone is yelling.

The cars screech and holler
the world is filled up with this daily clamour
the sounds of
transaction
survival
pleasure.

I want it all to stop.

This chaos
drowns me.

It is a hungry whirlpool,
it ***** me down
and I am consumed.
I lose my form
I scatter
my stunned body left reeling in this increasing emptiness

there are fractures
and pinholes
and puncture
all over my body
and I
am spilling out of them,
absorbed
into the ambient cacophony
of all this sordid living.

Grief
rears its head
roars thunderously
makes itself known.

We
howl like a wounded beast
bite and snarl
all teeth and nails and spit.

If only
we knew what we were mourning
then maybe we could let someone close.

But this grief.
arrives with no warning
it settled in with no explanation,
we suppose
it must be our inheritance
it comes hand in hand with our sense of hopelessness

I want
to descend into madness.

I want to crash to the ground,
and make this whole city chake.

I want to let go
to feel this body collapse.

But I cannot..
If I were to do that
who
would assure my mother
that she has not failed me?
That she did not soak me in this while we were entwined?

I am my mother's sadness amplified.

If I surrender,
to my own madness
I sentence her,
to be swallowed hers.

It feels better
to cry quietly in public
than to howl at home alone.

I feel almost like a ghost,
I don't feel real.

Sometimes,
it is nice not to feel real,
to feel as though
maybe,
this is all a bad dream
that maybe I will wake up soon.

And if it is real...
maybe I will fall asleep soon
and never wake up.

I feel like that would be easy

I feel
like I am halfway there already.

My whole life
is a migration.

I feel the pull of instinct
urging me to make the crossing
to return to the motherland
to be held in her warm
earthy embrace
to settle
into the sand of her shores

But I
do not know the way...

I am no wild animal
this familial memory
fails me
I am left drifting
knowing only
that there is so much of myself
I have not yet met,
that waits for me,
in the arm's of my family's country.

Leaves skitter across the road in the evening gloom
The darkness
rolls in over the city with this sharp wind,
it rises from the sea and swallows us
As we sleep.

You do not know this,
tucked cozily in your beds
and your living rooms.

The black sky
pulses against your window panes
but your back is turned to it
You ignore
it's whispered request for admission.

It roams
over your roof,
settling into the gaps between the shingles
looking for any cracks
any unfilled ***** hole
through which it might leak
down
into your home
onto your head
oozing in through your ears
until it fills you up entirely.

Autumn
has blanketed these piney slopes.

Splashed among the evergreen
the orange leaves of maples
nestle in like sleeping cougars.

The yellow
of turning aspens
is the fluttering wings of a goldfinch
guiding the eye seaward.

the red of oak,
salmon
jumping up along the shore.

Blooming all year,
don't you grow weary?
don't you wish the sun would let you sleep?

This is not natural
this constant state of greenery and growth
all things
must rest for a time.
All things must be allowed to conserve energy and recover.

Always smiling...
don't you grow weary?
Don't you wish
you were allowed to
to show weakness
for a just a moment
every once in a while?

The sky today
is bluer than usual;
I wonder if that means anything
                                   (a mental note to look it up kater)
The plane
passing overhead
looks so clear
                    -details crisp, easily interpreted
              how low is it flying?
I feel quite certain
that if I were to reach up,
it would fly circles between my open fingers,
a curious bumble-bee looking for his cargo.

I am sure
I could pluck it
right out of the sky;
a life-like model
in a giant's hand.

Is this.
the Shadow of Death?

This waiting?

                 This apathy?
                      
                             This expectation of misery? (quietly looking forward to it)

If I stop eating
will by body grow thin enough
that I could unravel?
That I could pick
at all these snagged imperfections
puckering my skin
until one comes loose
and I can pull it until I am entirely undone?
Until I tumble to the ground and blow away?

If i stop eating
will this rumbling
fill up my whole body?
Will this hunger,
that gnaws at my stomach,
grow larger than I have ever been?
Grow large enough to swallow me up?
To eat me whole
and dissolve me into nothing?

And then wander on....
a howling desolation
where a human used to be
that grows more grotesque
each moment.
Who's appetite grows continually
more appalling,
until it has consumed everything that surrounds it,
until it stands alone in a wasteland howling,
screeching,
disfiguring itself
until it dies from starvation, or auto-cannabalism
or until it is put down
like a rabid animal.

Crash
     and break
              and fall
Rush past me in waves,
I
will pass through this.

I am light
I cannot be affected.
I am a bodyless reflection of the sun
this flesh
is nothing,
I barely feel it,
barely live in it.

I
am barely here.

This body is temporary,
all of this aching
is temporary.

I
am transient stars.
I am the breath of things billions of years dead.

I am a ghost
finally reaching the place
they were sent to haunt.

So what does it matter?
Can the stars
answer your calling?
Can the sun grow any dimmer because you request it?
Can you pin the clouds
to the sky above your dry bones
with the might of your tongue?

Am I not all these things?
Am I not passing
fleeting
burning uncontrollably?
Tumbling through the void of space
only to be turned into folklore
when I finally snag on the surface
of this jagged planet?

I
am centuries of rain
reaching
for the ocean.

Water
running back to it's birth place,
taking this new body with it.

The water swells,
small waves roll into the beach
the ocean,
sends it's soft thundering
to where we sit amongst the driftwood
-contemplating the hazy obscurity spread before us.

The sea's gentle rumbling
is that of a slumbering beast
a deep
                slow
                        breath
in
            and then
                                           out.
waiting,
for the season to change.

I don't know how to be healthy anymore
and it is starting to scare me.

Except I don't really mean that it scares me,
only that I know it should
and it is slightly unsettling to realize
I don't feel anything about it at all.

So when I say it scares me,
I mean;

I am exhausted.

I mean, I spent 45 minutes staring out the window at nothing instead of writing.

I mean, I set up all of my paints
just so that I can sit here
with blue fingerprints on my thighs
breathing in paint thinner and linseed oil.

I mean, I physically cannot pick up the paintbrush.

I mean, the only thing I ate today was zucchini.

I mean, I don't know how to say any of this.

I mean, I want to talk to you,
always
constantly
but I can't open my mouth.

I mean I am disappearing
and I have no idea how to stop.

Listen to the articulated movement of the tides
The clink of a thousand stone teeth
Picked up
And put back down amongst it's neighbours
Baby molars
Lost at the seaside
The debris of a hundred smiling summers

Early morning stillness;
geese
cut a line
through the illusion of sky.

There is more to this planet
than just the earth we stand on.

----

Midday chaos;
       -short reprieve in a city park,
The geese
hold a cacophonous reunion
indulging themselves
with the season's  temporary abundance.

----

Soft arrival of evening;
dusk rolls quietly outward from the moon's feet
Geese
trace lazy circles
above the field.

Their murmuring,
drifts up from the cool grass
through the windows of old houses
so as we fall asleep
in our dreams
we will remember
that we cannot separate ourselves
from the wilderness
we were born out of.

Lay my body
out across the strait.

As I roll over in restless sleep,
let me hug the breakers to my collapsing chest.
Swallow the swells,
the sound of the sea
crashing throughout the emptiness
The wind
whining through me
a briny howl
drawn out of my creaking hull.

Lay me spread eagle
across the water
dissolve me
into the harsh glitter of fractured sunlight.
Reduce me
to flotsam and jetsam on the waves
what will,
in time,
be washed back
to this beach
where I sit now
and long
to
howl.

Mountains
recede into the dimness of evening
As though God
took this image of sky and horizon
and lowered the contrast
until we were left
with the impression of the Olympics
but none of their usual detail.
In this way
night
overtakes the entire landscape;
stealing along the line of the ocean,
blurring the edges of boats
buildings
and shore,
until the world is inhabited
solely by Soft Things,
and our eyes
are filled with sleep as we watch them.

Minds
drifting
towards thoughts of cloudy blankets
and warm beds.
This,
is how our city puts us to sleep,
as the watch lights,
appear twinkling
in the dusky sea.

Shockwave on water,
in every direction
there is soft
slow
yet tumultuous motion.

All of this rippling,
is this what the skipped stone sees
before it sinks into the cool water?
Looking back
towards the hand that sent it soaring
does it see
all the places it kissed the surface,
all of the stillness it disturbed?

How large is the hand of God?
To have scattered us all
across the surface of this world
to have hurled us all
out across the expense of time
skittering
towards that far off horizon
until we lose momentum,
and faltering
for a single moment too long
we plunge through the glassy surface
and descend
into whatever it is
that awaits us on the other side,
entering this life
dazed and confused
wondering
about all those other places
we touched
and may have broken through.