This city
It’s much too big for me—
Or maybe too small.

The city is much       too
small
for all these people.

There’s nowhere to put
us
so we go up.


We go up into buildings,
looking down on the moving.
We’re told we are safer
in buildings.

But buildings fall down.

This city.
It is easier with you
in it.

Not fighting a battle
to get into the subway,
but taking your hand and
deciding to walk.

So we walk.

We walk with our fingers
laced together like braids.
Nicely tied braids in the hair of a child.

This city.
It stares at us
confused,
wondering why we are smiling.

This is a place of motion
Move or be moved.
If you’ve taken a moment
to take in the view,
you are in the way.
You have taken time.

If you’ve taken a moment
to take a breath of fresh air,
well, honey, you’ve taken a leap
to the wrong city.

This city.
It never sleeps
(supposedly the appeal).

Go to sleep, you big city.
Your sirens,
your yelling,
your flashing bright lights—
they’re beautiful.
Go to sleep.

Go to sleep.
I’m sure someone will let you know
what you’ve missed.

Let’s move to a hippie commune. Let’s grow out our hair and spend our days sitting under the shade of sweeping, graceful trees. Let’s spend so much time outside that our hair goes blonde. Let’s write poetry in notebooks and not be afraid to read it out loud. Let’s make friends who care about things. People who want to help other people. I want to be a person among the noise but who does not always need to contribute to it.
Let’s listen. Listen to what our fellow people have to say—and then let’s support them. Can we just sit around a campfire and let that be the thing we do that night?
Now and then, let’s go out and be whatever the community needs. Not because we should nor because of some religious mandate, but because we can. I want to be part of a community that leans on each other. No hierarchies. Common good. Putting forth what one has, be it material or otherwise, for the sake of sharing. Let’s feed birds, squirrels and children.
Let’s make love on a blanket in the shade. I’ll let my long hair swing while I’m on top of you and kiss you ******* the mouth, completely out in the open. Hard.
Let’s forget about time and live by the sun. Let’s be awake when we’re awake and be sleeping when we’re tired. Let’s eat when we’re hungry and not because it’s time. When a cool breeze floats in, let’s stop everything we’re doing and breathe it in. Let’s smoke a joint.
Let’s bathe in a river. Let’s float in the soft current and let it ease our minds. Let’s take all our worries to the water. Let’s leave them there.
Let’s build our social network by shaking hands. Let’s solidify those connections by singing together. Let’s slow our hearts by talking about books.
Let’s cry when we’re sad. I want to feel something real and unabashedly open myself up to its profound ability to change me.
Let’s laugh when we’re happy. Let’s smile so wide we can’t help but let a giggle escape. Let’s allow ourselves to experience moments so deeply that we are shaped by them.
Let’s be together in a field. Let’s make wishes on flowers and tuck them into my hair for safekeeping.
Let’s make music a vital component of our love. Let’s never go anywhere without each other and a guitar.
Let’s dance. With closed eyes, let’s swing our arms around and let our bodies move however they please.
Let’s sit on the ground and feel the earth. Let’s sleep under stars.
Let’s go to sleep in each other’s arms. Let’s rock each other to sleep. Always.

Sitting on bare boards
Splinters finding their way into my skin--
In another new house
Shared with aging grandparents.

This space is not my own
Built to accommodate extra people,
Not a ten-year old girl.
Skeletons of a stranger’s past
Leave a lingering stale scent of cigarettes,
Giving me a dry mouth.
My room was his first.

Green carpet rolls in
Masking baron with poor taste,
Matching a neutral hallway.

I shout a greeting to my four walls
The echo which once replied
Is muffled.

New house. Not home.

Windows invite the sun
To my carpeted box
Rays act as a makeshift bed
As I curl up on a freshly laid floor.

Feet barely lifting, yet pounding the trail
He runs like the park’s percussion,
A metronome moving toward me.

He doesn’t run fast.
His neon wind suit propels him.
Laboured breathing
And a heavy stomach, a weight to carry
Slow him down.

Old running shoes
Reminiscent of an athletic past
Wispy grey strands—just a handful of hair--
Soberly recount a life led
Day by day

As he and I cross paths
I always take a breath
Wishing on sleeping wishing stars
He’ll make it home.

Less like a gazelle with each passing day,
He is not a friend,
But a friendly stranger.

My running companion
If only for a moment.

Fresh fish caught on Friday’s cast
Fills the plate with a flavour few have known,
The aroma of a French dinner party
Pan-fried to a flaky finish.

Far from home but wholly here
Smells of a sister’s kitchen,
Familiar sounds of sizzling stoves
Sing a melody of where I’m from.

A tomato sauce topping the dish
The tip of my tongue tasting the tender meat
Tension builds, awaiting my comments
A terrific meal on the outside of town.

Air: soft, warm, old, kept and distilled,
grasps my skin in heat so comfortable
enveloping the chill from moments before,
dissolving in a sultry, lustful sun.
Hot wind: solid and intentional,
wavering the stillness
surrounding the ancient new touch.

Men, voices rough with the fragility of age,
shouting foreign words with a friendly bounce.
Language unfamiliar, intent unclear.
Bells ring distantly, and then twice close by.
The avalanche begins, rolling chimes, rolling in time.
An unheard beauty unfolding.
The song of Mother Nature, different than the norm,
dancing around the chimes, complimenting sound.

Traditional and bold,
the spices swing past.
Recipes from generations back.
Gasoline and pollution abide miles away.
Warms and colds become defined,
crisp, triggering hunger.
Carts of fresh pastries release a delicious smell.

Coming to consciousness through scent.
Close to dining, the desire grows.
The cold ruins the warm mouth,
dissolves hunger, sweet and smooth.
Longingly, another sugary scoop drains the tongue.
This soft, delicious taste.

Unmasked beauty in historically bruised walls.
Faces of heroes, faces of citizens,
Colours of all sorts held in small cups and bowls,
Youth spread out soaking in the yellow sun,
Yellow skin and wrinkles instilled over time--
In the piazza.

In love.
Well, she is    
Him               not so much.

Strange               to let love

Grow
Alone.

The same hands

Are held.
The same lips

Are kissed.

With him
She

Sinks.
But without him
She




drowns.