we order thai, and wait. the deliveryman
whistles merci, bon nuit. white styrofoam
squeaks open with a waft of warmth and spice,
peanut sauce in the smallest box. soon
all our dishes are orange, and our tongues
thrum with tamarind and coriander.

sometimes when your lips cinnamon
mine, my mouth insists it is a camera -
lips precisely pursed into aperture, my teeth proffer
a calibrated array of shutter speeds; my tongue flips up
like a mirror, and my viewfinder eyes
synchronously close. my tonsils
have been amputated long ago, as if
i have forgotten to load my film. even so,
our lips unclasp with a tiny click,
as if some salival mechanism
has reconciled light and time, imprisoning
an inconsequential glimpse of you. too close
to be in focus, the emulsion in my mouth
mulls a blurry efflorescence, kernels of colour
bursting round and warm and orange, like the fireworks
of fish sauce that garnish your lips
and freckle the faces of our plates.

Inspired by a bpNichol poem from An H In the Heart:

should a shadow shadow you:
slip into an unlit room. remove
your clothes. wrap yourself in cellophane
so light passes through. leave
only under refuge of moon.

if followed by footprints:
slip into the nearest river
and dispose of your shoes.
travel solely from tree to tree
or in running water. study closely
the locomotion of birds and spiders.

chased by voice: slip into
a kitchen. with its sharpest knife
remove your tongue. swallow
cotton to mop the blood. flush
the tongue and do not speak
for at least three weeks.

heartbeat haunts you:
slip into the arms of your lover. remove
your clothes. in the mingling of skin
bury your heart beneath a pillow.
pretend to sleep. presently escape,
and never remember.

• tie a brightly-coloured string tightly around your finger.
• write it in capital letters on your hand. or your forehead.
• mark a large circle in orange pylons.
• lash it to an obtrusively long piece of plastic or wood.
• carve with a penknife into the bark of a tree.
• walk in snow or in mud, so your footprints will be visible.
• tell everyone you meet.
• install it in a small sealed bell jar, with water and tiny iridescent confetti. shake gently.
• chip off a small piece and keep it with you, always.
• urinate along the boundaries.
• legally change your name to something that rhymes with it.
• keep a poster-sized photograph folded in your wallet.
• choose something memorable, such as your birthday or your mother's maiden name.
• mint a commemorative coin.
• make a note of nearby landmarks.
• retrieve the black box from the wreckage. declare a day of mourning.
• paint it bright pink, festoon it with balloons, and place it in the middle of the living room.
• fall asleep with it roaring like a well-fed campfire in your head.
• holding it at arm's length with a ridiculous grin on your face, have someone else take a photograph from a short distance away.
• collect the autographs of all participants.
• having taken careful measurements, build a scale model out of matchsticks and glue.
• never wash out the stains.
• leave a trail of breadcrumbs behind you.
• without moving from the position in which you awaken, write everything down.
• plant a maple sapling in the exact location.
• on every anniversary send flowers, a card, and a large stuffed animal.
• have your entire neighborhood install signs on their lawns.
• touch nothing. cordon off the area and trace an outline in chalk. wear gloves.
• build a shrine, a church, a memorial, a museum, a mausoleum, a cairn of stones.
• make it a habit. make eye contact. make a list.

6:15. A clear cold sky, the colour of shadows on snow, holds the moon like a half-buried stone. I am sitting on the front step, waiting for a friend. This early in the morning, more cats than cars prowl Summit Street. A calico from next door laps water from the furrows in our driveway. A black cat from two doors down watches me with its eyes askant, mewing. The stars are pins and needles on my ears. I have forgotten my hat, but decide not to go back inside so as not to accidentally wake my roommate. A streetlight flickers fitfully. Soon Matthew rounds the corner, camera in hand. We head down Windsor and North, to the bridge.

Scant traffic until we reach the bridge itself, which is bustling. The pedestrian walkway on the southeast side rises heavily above parked cars and sleeping ships, arching over the harbour. We walk quickly, anticipating sunrise, and watch the Halifax skyline slowly rotate into view. A tripod proves useless, as the pavement shakes constantly with the weight of passing vehicles, but it is light enough now that it is unnecessary anyway. Near the first trestle, the air is voluble with the warble of birds; they have a gathering place under the walkway. We spot a few perched on the side rails and decide they are starlings.

The bridge is not as long as it looks. We are halfway to Dartmouth when the sun brisks up, quick as a wink, lavish as a cat's eye caught in cameraflash. Tapetum lucidum.

As soon as the light hits the starlings let go, with the precision and propensity of acrobats. A troupe of them cascades over salt water, single-minded, synchonized, wings tinged pink by the ruddy sunlight. My fingers are cold and move too slowly. The starlings are a fast cloud, cirrus uncinus, flurried and ephemeral. Somewhere between my eye and the sun they splinter and are never seen again, suddenly invisible, like a handful of sand tossed in water. Like fireworks, or a meteor shower. Like stars or fireflies at first light, like a cheshire cat, like a soap bubble popped. Like pins and needles, like gooseflesh, like freckles only visible when you've been in the sun. Like light in your eyes or water in your ears. Like every sunrise you've ever slept through.

"I think perception is a strange thing, much stranger than we think. These swifts... they live five times faster than us. We must be like cold statues to them."
· Graham Dorrington, in Werner Herzog's The White Diamond