these diaphanous continents, cumulus humilis,
are precisely the colour of canada according
to a national geographic map i once owned:
luncheon meat, an anonymous pink
frayed red around the edges,
freezer-burnt.

from the back door of the lower deck
bluster a cover band's clumsy standards,
as sunburnt bystanders
sway canadian flags to the words
of sweet home alabama, hotel california,
clink bottles and thank
god the shadows are getting longer.

from the steps of the marriott
i watch the crowd accumulate:
bare shoulders wash past
like larval barnacles, attaching themselves
to banisters, lampposts, motorcycles, boats.
couples clamp hands; parents fasten
stroller seatbelts, folding chairs, four-year-olds;
tourists circle and reluctantly settle,
secreting calciferous shells
of shopping bags, t-shirts, saltwater taffy,
slippers and oven mitts
shaped like lobsters.

sails as sharp,
as cautious as scalpels
obliviously vivisect
the harbour sky, which coldly fades
into an amputated blue
reminiscent of veins and
underwater mountain ranges

in the weakening light, in a restaurant window
candles glow on all the tables. a single waiter
replaces a tablecloth, folding the old one
like a flag, while outside
a woman folds her sunglasses
and puts them in her purse, as her companion
presses a paper cup against his cheek,
smudging a maple leaf

brings back the memories doesn't it
says someone behind me as the band breaks into
sweet caroline and a camera
can't help but flash

there is a flare of colour over dartmouth, too far off
to be the fireworks we are waiting for, but enough
to cause boats to slow, suture themselves
to a dock or a particular patch of water,
switch off deck lights

and for the next ten minutes
an anticipation is tangible
in the tightening of grips
on cigarettes, cups, stroller-handles, cameras,
as the crowd stands tight-lipped

heightening with the first brief puff
like an intake of breath
of a cannon in dartmouth

expending expanding
dandelion galaxies
and daisy-chain vapours

and we cheer and stare,
entranced by the chance
to stand on guard for something
grander than ourselves,

we ogle and augur,
intend to remember.

on a pale blue wall with thirty-two windows,
in capitals faintly painted over, a contingent of characters
clings to brick: a. m. bell & co. limited.
long since sold to another co., the ancient concrete
accepts its title like an epitaph, though the handpainted name
retains a certain resilient charm - one abdominous ampersand
brandishes a cherished serif, pipe-shaped,
in its open mouth; a stands smartly at attention,
moustache thin and trim in its philtrum, and b's bilious ass
suggests it is still digesting breakfast. on one end
of where signpainters' scaffolding must once have been,
c and o carry on a conversation
with the little letters in limited, while the sistered ls in bell
sit still beneath a windowsill, ankles hanging stiffly
over hollis below. only m seems uneasy, leaning clumsily
on its one strong leg, an ailment unfelt by the rest of the font
except for an equally wonky w
in another word wedged in the wall's widest column:
hardware.

in a similarly pale blue sky, awkwardly wallpapered
with altocumulus, a wanderlustrous sun has found
another w, a prong of weathervane, two blocks west.
shadowed below is the roof of the bell, with its single brick chimney
outnumbered long ago by a throng
of mushroomed ventilators, themselves numbered 39, 40, 41
in cracked black paint, in the kind of handwriting anyone would have
while shaking a spraycan on a slanted roof,
with only an eavestrough to underline
whatever would slip from your mouth if you slipped
or dropped the aerosol,
to plummet quiet as an exclamation point
past rows of windows like luminous tombstones, through the very same air
signpainters must have stood in, one imagines
on scaffolding, or ladders, there isn't really
any way to say.

orange because it does not get mixed up
with asphalt, gravel, coniferous trees. orange because
it does not get lost -

as it was so we would not get lost
that they trussed us up
like clownfish on camping trips,
in lifejackets and safety vests
and orange whistles around our necks
on trails bedecked in flagging tape

and it was so we'd be noticed
we'd grinningly wrest
handfuls of dogberries from the bush
on the corner of walsh's
to toss at overmodest girls - or during church
brusquely lick an index finger
and pass it slowly through the knife
of a lit candle - or eff off afternoons
in a gravel pit to share a fire
or a cigarette, in attempts to impress
each other, and to test the patience

of parents as boring, we thought, as those plodding orange monopeds
squaddled in droves on the side of the road, or in the middle,
slow-moving, lugubrious - who drove us, who drove
too slowly on autumn evenings, whose apologues of moose
were a poor excuse. who furthermore, for sure, drove far too quickly
past miraculous highway accidents, with their attendant
sirens, sense of urgency, instinctive excitement,
reduced too soon in a blurry back window
to the disappointing
dot
dot

dot
of orange pylons.

barringtonstreetbusstop
barringtonstreetbusstop
barringtonstreetbusstop
barringtonstreebuststop
barringtonstrebusetstop
barringtonstrbuseetstop
barringtonsbustreetstop
barringtobusnstreetstop
barringbustonstreetstop
barribusngtonstreetstop
babusrringtonstreetstop
sbarringtonstreetstopbu
barringtonstreetstopbus
barringtonstreetstobusk
barringtonstreetstbuske
barringtonstreetsbusker
barringtonstreetbuskers

seaweed dries
in crumpled fistfuls
strewn across shorelines,

a scribbled calligraphy
filled with tongue-tied letters,
tangled ligatures.

i amass a small pile,
ply a dry patch of grass
with stilted lowercase,
slowly unsnarling
one letter at a time -

each gnarl snaps easily,
with the same brief pressure
as the tip of a pencil
or a camera's shutter,
gentle enough
to be accidental -

afterwards, forgetting the words
for the wind to find.

Then she stopped dead still and Tirian saw her gradually sink down into the grass and disappear without a sound. A moment later she rose again, put her mouth close to Tirian's ear, and said in the lowest possible whisper, "Get down. Thee better." She said thee for see not because she had a lisp but because she knew the hissing letter S is the part of a whisper most likely to be overheard.
· C.S. Lewis, The Last Battle

vessel. the esses there, the excess breath
whistled through lips; the sinuous promise
of floss, press, caress, kiss. S, the sound
and shapelessness of misfired fireworks,
of indecisive rivers. vessel, possibly
a shell, envelope, bottle, fist; anything that simultaneously
holds and is held.

ferry insinuates
an eternal to and fro, like a misaddressed letter
lost in the mail. from north sydney to port aux basques
to north sydney, to port aux basques. the mv caribou,
the mv joseph and clara smallwood. merchant vessel. why do i think
of mussel, kestral, sessile, fossil? of fissile, of driftwood or bone
split along the grain, of ventricle, vascular, of plumes of steam
from smokestacks as thick as a butcher's wrist,
smokestacks the colour of shallowed veins. whistle, the shrill
of a kettle threatening hell, visceral. yesterday
i dropped that glass with the hairline crack, it shattered i swear
before it ever hit the floor. the mv hopedale, twenty-three years ago,
guttered on fire for thirty-six hours before going under. the records say,
sank at berth. seven weeks later she rose again
to be properly scuttled, twelve miles south. glass slivers easily
into invisibility; sweeping up
is something you shouldn't be careless about. SOS
because it was easy to morse, not because
it meant anything.

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.

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.

a seagull quill
dipped in tidepool

sips water easily,
doesn't drip, deposits
a clean, oblong line,
brief as breath,
on shoreline stone

saltwater letters vanish fast
in strong lateral sunlight -
traced this three times before it would linger
long enough to photograph,

not long after

O, the wild rose blossoms
On the little green place.

He sang that song. That was his song.
· James Joyce, A Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Man

we moved to fourteen walsh's avenue
when i was two. when i was twenty-two
my parents built a new house
in the same town, and sold the old one.
in the twenty years between, i grew up
with my sister and brother. we had
a big backyard, and when we were young
dad tended a vegetable garden.

father footprint garden stone
the fence is stained, the lawn is mown,
the firewood thrown in a pile downstairs.
our yard is filled with summer smells:
sawdust, woodsmoke, wet paint, sods.
i am three or four years old,
taking a sip from the garden hose,
languid green and long in the sun.
it tasted warm. i was born in st. john's,
and this house was someone else's home
before we came. my mother sang
Michael Row Your Boat Ashore,
Polly Put The Kettle On,
and songs from Sharon, Lois & Bram.

carrot, turnip, parsnip, beet,
drowsing in rows of furrowed earth.
dad ploughs stones out of their beds
each spring, in hopes they'll properly sleep
sound and deep and round and grand.

potatoes slowly open eyes
and send up shoots like periscopes
while tall, attentive ears of corn
congregate along the fence
and heads of lettuce in sunday best
dutifully mouth the words
to O Hosanna In The Highest
as a lowly crow leads mass.

father footprint garden stone
the crows are at the garbage again,
stabbing at bags with pickpocket beaks
gobbling crumbs with cackles and croaks
scattering scraps on the side of the road
then laughing out loud from a telephone wire
singing All God's Creatures Got A Place In The Choir.

my father built a sturdy frame
from planks of wood he'd painted red,
stapled up plastic to trap the heat,
and planted tomatoes. the bristly leaves
prickled a bit, and we picked them green
to ripen on a windowsill. for a while
we kept rabbits in the greenhouse too,
two tame ones we gave names to.
their ears were as warm
as homemade bread, but their noses
were as cold as cod. one was brown
and the other was gray. their eyes
were the colour of motor oil
spilled on an asphalt driveway.

father footprint garden stone
someone left the gate undone,
the dogs got in, the greenhouse torn,
the smell of blood. two rabbits gone.
the lawn is strewn with tufts of fur
cleaned up before the kids got home.

once a year i'd read Watership Down
and imagine they'd escaped somehow.

a muddy road ran beside our yard,
wild raspberries on either side
and a gravel pit near the end of it
where bonfires were lit on Guy Fawkes Night.
beyond that was a guard-dogged farm
and sprawling woods, stitched with snowmobile trails,
strawberry patches, rabbit-traps. when we were older
dad took to making snares himself,
snowshoing in, and coming back
sometimes with a brace of them
he'd skin in the greenhouse, and give to friends.

i am seventeen years old
opening the door, the bodies there
limply strung and long in the snow,
hard as the lump in the back of my throat.

father footprint garden stone
the weeds are young, the kids are grown,
the garden gone, the fence leans low.
fourteen walsh's is listed for sale: a four
bedroom, two-story home, electric heat,
a large backyard, a quiet street,
suitable for starting a family.

my parents built a brand new house
when i was twenty-two. it has
a smaller yard, and instead of a garden
a brazen stand of woods - the neighbors mostly
razed their trees, but mom and dad
preferred it naturally haphazard -
the bunches of birch a haven for birds,
the sound of branches in the wind.

father footprint garden stone
the fence is stained, the ferns unfold.
see, there where the birdseed spilled
a sunflower sprang. the birds are bold
and appear in droves after it rains. i am
twenty-four years old, spending august
visiting home, listening to rain
and radio, and writing poems.

one midnight in montreal, sliding open my window
to alleviate the heat, i happened to witness
saint lawrence escorted discourteously
by a hairy pair of arms
from the back exit of o'regan's irish pub;
the door slammed behind him,
his fist skimmed the door, and his curses
were slurred, and went unanswered.
muttering drunkenly to himself
as rivers tend to do, disgruntledly
damning this and damning that,
he sopped his lip with a soggy beermat,
yelled at his beltbuckle
to eff the fuck off,
and as if each forgetful foot was stuck
in a bucket of lukewarm water,
sloshed around the corner
and stumbled behind a dumpster, pissing
for twenty minutes, easily

all over the wall, the alleyway,
the windowsill, the fire escape,
the parking lot across the street
and over all the rooftops

the sound of solid clouds
smashing into something wet
like fists on filthy countertops

a city briefly lit
as if by cameraflash, so that only
what you're looking at stands out,
the rest as abruptly black
as the backgrounds of photographs
tipsily snapped in a badly-lit bar

(it's because the light was like that
that i remember any of this)

til gutters groaned incoherently
and drainpipes gasped for forgiveness
he pissed like a public fountain
flush with summer thunderstorm

and afterwards sighed, shook himself dry
and wandered south, soused and satisfied.
the thunder ended. lightning continued distantly,
like a television seen from the street
submersing an empty livingroom in damp blue bursts

turning off my fan to better hear the rain
i lay on my mattress, listening to the universe
argue softly with itself

standing on the shoulders
of a road needing repair, trying to decide
if the sun's risen yet, and if this's
considered fog, or rain. you can just make out
fireweed smouldering on the side of the road,
puddles the colour of cold tea. behind you
the ferry terminal's string of strong lights
punches holes in the parking lot, and a steady stream of lowbeams
drifts up the incline. don't suppose anyone notices, at least not
this early in the morning, your faded stain of rainjacket
against a landscape like an unmade bed, a trampled sod of hair,
a thumb glumly aimed at the wind
like an illegible weathervane, and a sign hoping:
St. John's. might as well be a billboard
bidding Welcome to Newfoundland and Labrador,
for all the attention it's got so far. walking backwards
out of port-aux-basques, the road's shoulders slowly rise
in a resigned shrug, as if to ask What did you expect?
What possessed ya? What got into your head
that made this sound sensible? possibly it was
a drop of salt water, a bit of birdshit, some scrap
of radio static, a musicnote wrongly wrung.
perhaps you mistakenly used
your sister's shampoo, the one labelled
for wild tangles. could've been a combination
of moonlight, homemade wine, and saliva
from the tongue of a certain young woman
who's spent too much time up north. a ladybug,
an earwig, an incubus. in any case
it's cleared out now, just like that last
straggling minivan. this isn't quite
what you had in mind.

junk: a piece or lump of anything.
1. A short log to fit a wood-burning stove or fire-place. "The wood was sometimes quite green, and hence making a fire was quite an art, and required back-junks, fore-junks, middle-junks, triggers, splits, and brands; and the fishermen would sometimes say whoever can build a good fire with green fir can build a boat."
· The Dictionary of Newfoundland English

moving involves
a measured dismantling, taking time
and taking apart. my apartment
is overladen, a tree hunched with snow,
a hull too low in the water.
my shelves are full of souvenirs,
as amusingly useless as miniature ships
built in the gullets of thick glass bottles.
as sap clots wood, my closets are clogged
with flotsam, jetsam, junk. moving involves
a willingness to jettison.

just look: this splint of driftwood
i took from a beach
because it was hollow, smooth,
grew warm in my hand. if i were eight
it might make an excellent telescope -
as it is, all it shows is a handful of stones
gleaned from the same beach
because they were pale, translucent,
reminded me of moons.

similarly, this small curled shell
i plucked from a sidewalk in montreal,
thinking it looked lost. tucked in my pocket
it weighs almost nothing, as if it's been there
all along. pressed against my ear
it echoes only my heartbeat, quick and distant,
like my footsteps on the afternoon i found it.

this ring of green glass was once
the neck of a bottle. look,
here are the threads where the bottlecap went,
the rough edge where it broke. i picked it up
from a firepit, washed it with pondwater;
a wedding band for a vagabond. it's exactly
the diameter to fit my finger,
but proves difficult to remove -

moving involves taking stock,
and taking a deep breath. my apartment
is taking on water; the first step now
is to build a good fire
with green fir.

"Who are YOU?" said the Caterpillar.
· Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

slowly now, unfurl
like a folded blanket
flourished from a backpack. find something
to cling to: a favourite book, a flawless leaf,
a familiar smile. tilt your head back
til the world curls into itself
and upsy-daisies, dandelions
dangling lackadaisically
like slumberous pendulums. on summer afternoons
there is no falling involved - sleep seeps up
to meet you, an anaesthetic
lacing the scent of grass.

softly now,
so as not to wake yourself. find a tiny door
and slip inside: a rabbit-hole,
a hollow reed, the gap between
two front teeth. every metamorphosis
involves a small dark space,
and sundered daydreams sometimes end
when leaves are fondly brushed from a face
flush with sun, wonder, somnolence.

Then God said, O.K. let's get this show
on the road, boy, get some names
stuck on these critters, and Adam,
his head on the ground in a patch of tiny
pink-white flowers, said,
mmn, just a sec.
· Don McKay, Twinflower

she calls dragonflies
darning needles

dipping to sip pondwater
over and over, hovering in place
as if held in thimbled fingers

tiny ones with invisible wings
land pointedly on one leaf, then another
as if they, not garden spiders
leave thin lines labyrinthing space
where flies are likeliest.

in the japanese garden
a long-legged harvestman
flexes its legs, floating on wood like
living calligraphy

we called those
daddy-longlegs, or rain spiders. and didn't squish them
because if you did it was supposed to rain. same with
water-doctors.

in the botanical garden
all the plants have nametags
but nothing has been done about the animals.

lazing on the grass
under an indecisive sky,
clouds are unintelligible
but the tip of the olympic tower
jutting above arboretum
is plainly the prow of a ship

a crow coasts across cloudbank,
black spackle on blue

she folds rose petals she finds in the grass
until the pink begins to bruise. i close my eyes
and the sun plunges the insides of my eyelids red

trying to find a place amid the litany
of latin names newly littering my memory
for one more name
for a poem,

she calls dragonflies
darning needles

at the foot of a tree
a small squirrel
splayed sideways,
foetal

eyes closed
toes long, languid
tail curled a wrong way
fur the colour of
small moths,
dun

head caved in
ants roving over it
like raindrops over the windows
of a moving vehicle,
hesitant;

no taxidermist ever
came as close as this

almost beautiful
almost

"I just wrote it was about the physical impossibility of death in the mind of someone living. And the kind of way it went bubbada-bubbada-bubbada... You know, kind of poetically, and the clumsy bs and ps in it, and how it tried to explain something that wasn't there, or was there. I just really liked it. It really stuck in my mind."
· Damien Hirst, from On The Way To Work

The city, however, does not tell its past,
but contains it like the lines of a hand....
· Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities

in freshly-poured concrete, fried-egg white
and politely cordoned off with orange tape,
someone has planted a handprint

between backlit plastic letters
that spell La Belle Province
sparrows refurbish a nest
with feathers, napkins, ketchup packets

on a somewhat crumpled twenty
someone has pencilled a thin moustache
on queen elizabeth's upper lip.

at Place Jacques Cartier
the fountain overflows with foam;
small children squeal
and clap, squishing fistfuls,
fashioning moustaches
and flimsy foam castles

a woman lifts a handful
and it drifts off, descending
to float across paving stones
boatlike, buoyant with light,
her handprint still in it

four in a morning
and my long walk home ends
exactly as daylight sets in,

sky that peculiar chlorine blue
that they paint swimming pools

while like a lost balloon, the moon
disappears into the atmosphere
to descend somewhere else,
possibly the sea.

darkness nestled deeply
in the silhouettes of curbside trees
along st-urbain. at prince-arthur
unseeable birds cheeped exuberantly;
i could hear them clearly
even as i crossed milton avenue.

earlier, while waiting for the metro
at lucien l'allier, a solitary tuft
of dandelion fluff wafted past my nose
and drifted into subway tunnel
in search of sunlight and favourable soil.

alone on ste-catherines
i watch seagulls wheel and strut
hesitantly towards innocuous pizza crusts,
my own stomach sleepy with
beer, sesame seed bagel, tzatziki.

i am finally figuring out
how to live in montreal:

always walk
either there or back, no matter
what the distance. furthest friends
give the longest hugs. never decline
an invitation, a drink, or anyone's couch.

saturday nights
are not for sleeping; see at least
one sunrise a week. park picnic tables
make excellent planetariums.

on sundays, a cup of tea
equals an hour of sleep.

touching the doorknob
turns morning on
like an antique radio
sputtering into popsong.

i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands...
· E. E. Cummings, somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond

did the same small hands
that unfold dandelions,
tend abandoned gardens,
and rake ponds on windy days

fold you from castaway candybar wrapper
or discarded cigarette carton

deliberately, delicately,
as one would fold a frail and valuable map,
crown a cardhouse with the king of spades,
or spread the wings of a pinned insect?

were you marooned
on this low stone wall

like a compass rose
placed in the loneliest space on a map,
your four paper petals
pointing in all cardinal directions
at once, as if resolutely lost?

and isn't it true
that though you cannot fly
nor fold yourself into a paper plane

if i return tomorrow
you will probably be gone,

your lifting-off
implied but unseen,
like the wind's thin fingers
or the sun's soft thumb,

or as a question lifts gently
the end of a sentence?

not when you stand there
hips propping hands
smile raised lamentably
as a twenty-dollar tent

neither on the lookout
with the blank lake behind you
flat as a portrait studio backdrop

not at the instant a baseballglove beak
shortstops your badly tossed sandwich crust

nor in your mother's wedding dress
plundered from a cardboard box
under an air mattress
in the basement closet.

rather, perhaps

as you triple-knot the garbage bag,
hair drowsily ponytailed

struggle with an umbrella
as precocious october snow
speckles your rainjacket

or standing on a wooden chair,
left hand bracing marbled wallpaper
right rattling a lightbulb at your ear

possibly as you squeeze a teabag
between spoon and thumb

or at the split-second precisely
your eyes widen at a bumblebee

maybe as you straddle a picnic-table seat
and puncture a tangerine
with two front teeth

or close your eyes at your mother's voice,
fingers tangled in telephone cord

throwing clothes unfolded
into a borrowed suitcase

or later while you're still
curled there, that familiar damp spot
faint on the pillow
by your waterfountain mouth

he lifts the rack gingerly,
with both hands, and grins.
"your break."
she leans over the baize,
reflected green tinging her chin. yeah,
that's what he was looking at.

she connects the dots.
tick, Tock,
and a galaxy is born, its stars
neatly numbered 1 through 15
and a moon. nothing sinks
so he leans low, eyeing the line
then checking it with the cue stick
to be sure. or to impress her.

calls it
nine ball, corner pocket

any scattering of small objects
on an implied plane, like
a pocketful of coins lost in grass,
dandelion fluff adrift on her breath,
wasp guts on a windshield,
the contents of a gumball machine,
cat hair on his favourite sweater, or
the freckles on her back

countless examples, which perhaps
explains the vastness of the universe

or at the very least
why he can't find his keys.

later,
"no, a little lower. lower. there."
Click
and the picture is taken. look,
it looks like he's holding the Eiffel Tower
on his outstretched palm.

the promenade is milling
with tourists. she notices
two people who seem poised to embrace
but they brush past each other,
suddenly becoming strangers

any trick of perspective,
any map or photograph

anything that is only there
when you are here, like

sunrise cresting the windowsill,
his pulse on her lips when she kisses his wrist,
the sound of a tree falling in a forest, or
a lunar eclipse

which might explain
the inscrutability of the universe,

or at the very least why her eyes
are as wide, as liquid, as sequined blue
as a planet seen from the moon

crabapples, pinecones, chokecherries, stones:
anything that fits a fist,
makes wrists restless

as if earth was goliath

at the snap of an elbow
the crack of rock on rock
recklessly echos.

a field, freshly ploughed
yields a small pile of boulders;

darryl and i spend an afternoon
knocking deadwood off an ancient birch
until the only rocks left to toss
are the ones that ricochet back at us.

under the trestle we abandon bicycles,
wrest pebbles from the river,
take turns straining slingshots
until our fingers tremble

bottles propped on rocks
shatter with a satisfying crash
though no one dares go barefoot after that.

we skip shale,
reckoning the rings
that hang on a pond
momentarily, like footprints in sand

or pitch thin stones,
arrowhead-sharp, straight up

squinting as they plummet abruptly
to plunge the pond's surface
with a muffled choke,

call that
slitting the devil's throat.

i toss a pop-tarts box
into the campfire, not noticing
a dead battery in the bottom of it

which in furious rebirth
rockets twenty feet
and grazes david's leg, a black streak
on the shin of his splashpants

us sitting on driftwood,
a chorus of holy shits

from the roof of the one-room dining hall,
we lob snowballs
at grayjays swooping low towards the garbage bags

a flock of them speckles a nearby birch,
chuckling at us

and we hit not one,
though when sir catches us up there
his bellow scares the branches clear.

This is my contribution to a concrete poetry project organized by derek beaulieu. The idea was to work with only the materials supplied: a sheet of letraset dry-transfer lettering and a sheet of 8½ x 11" paper.

The piece is titled Ryoan-ji, and was inspired by the famous Japanese rock garden. The Ryoan-ji garden consists of fifteen stones arranged on a field of raked gravel, and is part of a Zen temple. There are many maps and photos of the garden available online.

The simplicity of the Ryoan-ji garden lent itself well to the limits of this project. The five english vowels represent the garden's five clusters of rocks, with capital letters for the largest stones. The orientation of the letters implies connections between the clusters, in the same way that the garden's gatherings of stones resonate with one another in a kind of understated harmony.

Vowels are the most essential letters of the English language, as it is almost impossible to write or pronounce words without them. A and I are also the only letters which are also words. I thought this worked well with the garden's wabi-sabi aesthetic, which evokes simplicity, tranquility, and transcendence. Attempting to pronounce the poem produces a mantra-like sound.

on the pale crumbling parchment
of last year's leaves

with a ballpoint pen,
patiently,
whetting its tip
on my tongue

ink reluctantly
catches in cracks,
breaks in places,
makes mistakes

on stone
like glaucous chalkboard,
slated by glaciers
just for this purpose

with a shard of green glass
found smashed at its base

each scratch
leaves a sharp white scar,
leaves tiny grains of glass
in my english

The moon is in the sky,
But as if someone were absent
The whole scene is empty...
· Matsuo Basho, The Records of a Travel-worn Satchel

from the belvedere,
a faint contrail
bridges two looming clouds

late afternoon light
parachutes into treetops
and lands in tatters on tangled grass.

a kite has caught on a tree,

like my eyes on the long dark hair
of a girl leaning alone on the balustrade.

two children play hide-and-seek
on the nearly empty plaza;
a small boy hides his eyes
behind his hands,
counts to sixty

opens them again
just as the first raindrops
speckle my notebook.

i look back
but the girl is gone.

colder now,
clouds like woolen blankets;
there will be no stars tonight,
but below, one by one
the city's lights wink on.

spring, and the park is thronged
with joggers, strollers, dogs.
a juggler on the belvedere
flips five rings into orbit
around his open mouth

i am handed a camera
by a stranger who pleads
excuse me, would you please,
and slots himself into the skyline,
smiling obligingly

the shutter clicks
like a rock kicked while walking.

on a wide path when no one is watching
i close my eyes, walk blind
for as long as i can, concentrating
on the crunch of shoes on gravel,
sunlight warming my eyelids

keeping my eyes closed
proves as impossible
as holding my breath

and when i reopen them
i am not where i thought i was.

on a fading trail filled only with squirrels
i study the legibility of footprints
on exposed stone,
on matted yellow grass,
in innumerable fallen needles,
in mud, in puddles,

and in snow, where the trail ends suddenly
in a threadbare gray blanket, grass stalks
jutting through.

nearby, a pond still frosted with ice
reflects the forest imperfectly,
like a photograph out of focus.

one of my earliest memories
is tripping at the end of our driveway
and not knowing my arm was broken
until a nurse said so.

for weeks, a plaster cast
kept my bones from moving

the doctor cut the plaster with a special saw
and mom put the cast in a shoebox
on the top shelf of my closet.

lifting the lid years later
i found a cracked pale cocoon,
preposterously small
and full of get-well-soons
in washable ink.

standing still, i am mindful
of the forest defrosting,
of involuntary movements:

a crack inches across ice;
i notice my undone shoelace

a crow crosses the sky between two trees,
my eye gives chase

the branch beside me wavers in wind,
like my stomach with breath.

when the wind picks up
i fasten my jacket.
in this pocket of the park
spring breathes coldly,
like a hibernating animal

some mornings when i wake up
it takes a moment to remember where i am.

And then the wind would lull and die away and we like it fell asleep again.
· Henry David Thoreau, A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers

thankyou to a girl in a green coat
out where my alleyway meets the street
who as i jimmied my frigid window
raised a camera to her eye,
winked quickly, walked away

causing me to pause,
notice how inviting the light was
and resolve to go outdoors,
fill up my hat with it

shadows already
falling like snow, filling cracks
in brick walls, swallowing firstly
culs-de-sac, sidestreets

as an afternoon's long angles
untangle themselves from fire escapes
and spiral staircases,
slowly winding into sun
like a ball of red yarn.

a long walk, letting fresh air
wash the barsmoke out of my coat

brought a notebook,
sat at la joute,
wrote this in it

slightly later, noticed the moon
like a dime on the sidewalk,
plucked it up, plunked it
in a proffered coffee cup,
winked quickly, walked away

...each memory is lit
by its own small moon - a snowberry,
a mothball, a dime - which regulates its tides
and longings.
· Don McKay, Finger Pointing at the Moon

oolong, green sencha, wild orange,
rooibos, bakeapple, vanilla caramel.
a small cupboard filled with the smells
of teas mailed to me by my mother,
who takes tetley orange pekoe
sweetened with condensed milk.
she always leaves a mouthful
unfinished in her cup; growing up
my first curious sips of tea
were cold and bittersweet
from a mug beside the kitchen sink.

my kettle whippoorwills me awake
and i realize, drowsily, that in the
five minutes since i plugged it in
i have slipped asleep,
steeped in dreams:

two summers ago, touring museums
with a pocketful of satsumas, we saw
The Artful Teapot. in the parking lot
my peel fell off in one long pirouette;
i photographed it on the asphalt.

too many of my memories
are fastened flimsily to photographs. flipping through
makes me lonely, forgetful - i never remember as much
when i visit a museum by myself

surely some tangible sentiment or sediment is preserved
from a summer brimming with souvenirs

but in a jigsaw-puzzle box
filled with badly-folded maps,
a broken pocketwatch from camden lock,
teacup potsherds and clay pipe fragments
salvaged from the south bank of the thames
and miniature postcards of pulteney bridge,
i find only bits and pieces of us
and dust.

clementines uneaten too long
mildew the colour of the moon,
cocoon into ghosts
as shapeless as teabags,
fit only for the breakfasts
of butterflies.

she called a cab. i could not
remember my address. i asked her
to keep her teacup: round, blue,
secondhand. she dropped it in her purse
unrinsed, a little bitterness
still in the bottom. on its underside,
"made in people's republic of china."

(come all the way from china
doesn't mean as much
as it did once)

she closed the door behind her
and i put the kettle on,
called in sick,
sipped oolong,
listened to music,
took pictures of tissues.

after which our separating selves become museums
filled with skilfully stuffed memories
· E. E. Cummings

i'd rather sink - than call brad for help!
laments the lichtenstein poster girl
as she drowns under jumbled vinyl,
tangled wires, a jungle of flowerpots.
branton loves his plants, i comment
as we squeeze in one last philodendron
and gingerly close the tailgate.
his dad runs a flower shop, grins dave,
as branton and lise come downstairs
with a base guitar and a begonia,
ford bounding eagerly behind.

are we ready yet, yawns branton's dad
from behind the wheel. it's just down st-joseph
and around the corner, but one-way streets
wrangle us in the wrong direction. several red lights later
branton says, the floor's not level in that corner
but ford's gonna love the backyard.

two truckloads excavated, the old room
is bare but for blankets, mattress, bedframe,
box spring. that thing, declares branton,
doesn't fit down the stairs. we all agree
there's no way, then try it anyway

...the balcony is how we moved it in, says b.,
but we'd need some rope. there's a hardware store
not far from here -
                          i hope this is enough. ford
sniffs suspiciously at the coiled yellow cord
as we slit the box spring's thin underbelly,
leash its wooden bones. though dave and i
were both chief scouts, neither of us
remembers any knots. is that a clove hitch?
a fisherman's bend? no it's homemade,
and gordian.

you two at the top, i'll catch it at the bottom.
branton's dad guards flowerpots, lise aims a camera,
and we unceremoniously lower our box spring over st-joseph
like a white flag, an empty speechballoon,
an allegiance to the kind of silence
that surrenders itself faithfully:
fresh snow, new sheets of paper,
or four white walls and a hardwood floor
waiting to be filled with paint, plants, pawprints,
a doormat that says bienvenue,
and a mattress to sink into.

newly snow-laden, a birch branch
bends lower still when a squirrel lands,
a briefly-lowered drawbridge
to an adjacent maple.

only because i close my eyes
i hear the following: the elfin squeak
of a branch hinging back into place,
the flump of newly-loosened snow
plummeting into unbroken snowbank,
a patter of scurrying paws.

i reopen my eyes to winter's white noise,
the blinding sound of sun on snow
pooling in footprints, pealing between trees,
every evergreen needle
an unaligned antenna.

the squirrel spirals the maple's trunk,
hops across snow like a skipped stone,
shyly shadowing me as i walk
backwards along the path, watching.
a patch of gray ruffles its ears,
tail a muffled question mark,
eyes like unfilled birdfeeders.

similarly, i hear soft footsteps
before noticing her there,
gray coat, white mittens, white hat,
a fringe of orange hair. she pauses
when she sees me, seems to
mentally make a small adjustment,
as if tapping a compass
to spur a sleepy needle.

on the opposite side of the glade
i close my eyes, slowly orbit
towards the chalet, listening
for the silence of satellites.

she eclipses me by the belvedere,
slips a small silver camera from her purse, says,
excuse me could you please take my picture

later, at a table in the chalet
between sips of tea from a paper cup:
this is my first time here. i followed you
because you knew where we were going.

Which is as thin of substance as the air
And more inconstant than the wind...
· Mercutio, in Romeo and Juliet

this ice,
eyelid-thin, rises drowsily off of rock
as if furtively roused, like a loose tooth
one swallows while asleep. weakened
in midmorning sun, this ice
languishes, loosens fingers, relinquishes
nocturnal grip on rock, allowing light
to slip into its gap. restless,
anticipatory, erogenous, this ice
shifts in its sleep, furls itself instinctively
as a snail will when touched, withdrawing
at sudden warmth. this ice
sips heat from my fingers
sleepily, chokes up
cracks and craters, tiny accidents
of thirst and anxiousness. finally
awakening far too late, this ice
finds itself fallen out of bed
in broad daylight, disgracefully displaced
and unexpectedly alone,
the dwindling remains of rain.

The Montreal launch of Shift & Switch: New Canadian Poetry happened last night. I read some poems, along with five other contributors to the anthology, four of whom had travelled bravely from Ontario despite messy weather. Editor Angela Rawlings introduced the book, then Max Middle started us off, followed by Jon Paul Fiorentino, Mark Truscott, me, Angela, and Rob Read. It had been proposed that we jointly host the event, each reader introducing the following one, which suited the spirit of the anthology, and worked well.

It was great fun. Café Esperanza was fairly crowded, in a cozy way, and the audience was warm and appreciative. The room was brimful with comfortable couches and chairs, and colourful lamps hung randomly around - plenty of ambience. Max remarked afterwards that it was quite a different setting from the Ottawa launch the night before, which had been in a bookstore.

It was wonderful to hear (and get to meet) the other contributors. Max was astonishing, from his charming opening poem dear jc to some startlingly guttural interpretations of his visual work. Jon Fiorentino cracked open the crowd with his sardonic wit - I loved his poem about "boring people holding hands." Mark Truscott was enthralling, flipping intently through his books and dispensing quick, subtle poems (and a "grammar joke"). I read four poems, and probably looked a bit nervous, but didn't feel it. I was glad to get to introduce Angela, who I'd heard once before, at Casual Jack's back in Corner Brook. She gave an equally engaging performance this time, with an acrobatic voice that leapt from one syllable to another, her poems from wide slumber for lepidopterists interspersed with gasps. Rob followed, reading some of his quirky Daily Treated Spams - his bellowing "O Amazon Dot Com!" was one of my favourite lines of the night.

I hadn't read my work publicly in quite a while and had forgotten how refreshing it can be to read aloud. It's something I should do more often. I love hearing laughter at a reading, and there was plenty last night. Audiences sometimes seem unsure whether it's appropriate to laugh at poetry, but this crowd showed no hesitation, and really warmed up the room. Overall the evening was immensely enjoyable and rewarding. I'd brought my camera but didn't take any photos, not wanting to interrupt anything. I know other people did, and if I am sent any (hint, hint) I shall try and put some up.

Added March 2, 2006: Here's one of Angela reading (thanks, Wanda!):

Here is one of the poems I read at the launch (the others were excerpts from answers, stewed heads, and midnight ode to typewriter).

South Brook Area No. 7 (found poem)

All that area of the Island of
Newfoundland beginning at the
Humber Canal Spillway Crossing;
thence following the south bank of
the Humber Canal to Main Dam;
thence following the northern shore
of Grand Lake; the railway bridge
over Main Brook (near Howley) and
the eastern shoreline of Grand Lake
to its southeastern extremity; thence
following the Camp 33 Road to the
TCH; thence following the TCH, in a
generally northerly direction to the
mouth of Humber River; thence
following the southeastern bank of
the Humber River and the
southeastern shoreline of Deer Lake
to the point of commencement.

Tib's Eve, also Tips* ~ and, by folk etymology, Tipsy Eve:
1. A day that will never come; never.
2. A day or two before Christmas.
· The Dictionary of Newfoundland English

so it's tib's eve - or is it tips, i said.
and n. said no, it's tim's eve.

in any case, it's in tim's downtown
that i'm remembering this. early morning,
warm mocha, and my corner by the window,
waiting for someone, watching snow, filling notebooks
full of yesterday as i always do

last night, waiting for n. and m. to finish work
i wandered west street, down to the millbrook
then back up by the glynmill inn,
making night photos again

steadying my camera on the staircase railing,
i photographed glynmill inn pond, a bowlful of water
lower than surrounding slopes, like the cavity left
by a campfire built on snow. the orange glow
of corner brook a smouldering coal,
the steam plume from the paper mill
like lingering smoke. just days ago
they closed the mill in stephenville.

trees black, coniferous or just branches
skeletal against brightly streetlit snow.
winter, the most monochrome time of year,
the season of extremes. even animals
migrate rather than wait it out, and undoubtedly
not all of them come back.

"we could not find a viable long-term solution"
lamented the spokesperson, black ink bleak
on newsprint the colour of birchbark.

yes or no, stay or go: the arguments
of factories, of families, of one-way tickets

gales of snow flicker
like flankers from streetlights, regaling trees
already necklaced with christmas lights
in the little park by the majestic.
speckles of luminous blue, yellow,
pink, green, gold: for now at least
there is still colour here

later, at sorrento's
m. says, when i was small i was
scared of black and white photos,
especially abbott & costello

this is the last time i will see them
before they leave for south korea.
and i think, at least spring
will bring back most of the leaves.

Margaret Bowater Park and the Sir Richard Squires Building, Corner Brook, Newfoundland & Labrador.

walking home slowly
on the longest night of the year,
snowbanks narrowing streets

threequarter moon (a fingernail
freshly clipped, cut to the quick),
pale pearly areola

my boots plunk wooden steps,
my door clicks open, unlocked.
i come out again with my camera,
locate a vacant lot, away from stray light

wait fifteen minutes in blunt cold
for the moon to re-emerge from a cloud

a passing van's single headlight
shuffles the shadows of a fence.
otherwise, the noise of stars: the pause
after a hand of cards is dealt

(in this winter air
wind tastes like tinfoil)

shadowy clouds gradually subside
like sediment settling in a pond,
and my mute moon, poker-faced,
pokes through

no tripod, so i stand
as still as possible, camera steadied
against my chest, feet far apart
for support, hold my breath,
hear the mirror flip

twelve seconds multiplied by silence

under barnacled moon, breath
compressed in my mouth, clouds
a flotilla of fishing ships,
it is easy to imagine i am underwater

this kind of silence
anticipates loss:

fogged film,
collapsed cardhouses,
stones crumbled into sand

dash 8, halifax to deer lake, probably forty people.
an attendant dispenses shortbread biscuits packaged in plastic
and a propellor shudders just outside my front row window.

several men in the back spend the flight joking loudly,
so upon landing a woman stands and jovially scolds,
"You crowd make some racket! Feels just like home on here."
"Where's home, my dear?"
"Morton's Harbour."

and instantly the entire aisle choruses
"All around the cir-cle!"

drifting rafts of st. lawrence ice,
like mirrorglass smashed, a precarious puzzle
nightly solving and dissolving itself,
shattering again in slow motion
with every sunrise.

i write this from a coffee-browned cafe,
a wooden chair by a window
where it snows now, a handful of dandelion fluff,
seeds to grow into snowbanks.
this morning, though, pale dawn yawned into a wide blue sky,
redeeming my sleeplessness with sudden purpose.
a beacon sun beckoned southeast,
waited between clouds for me,
then broke itself into yolk and eggshell
on the glittering river just as i arrived.

i gravitate to the old port for its wide open spaces
and (in december at least) uncrowdedness.
i navigate its quays camera-handed, photographing
fretted ice, the frivolous ballet of bird footprints,
crumpled-paper clouds, and five japanese tourists
who are curious about my camera
and ask me to take their picture.

afterwards i climb the belvedere
for a better view of broken dockside ice,
and notice my own footprints from above.

jen is right about the snow,
it remembers where you've been

like photographic emulsion,
impressing heaviness into shadow,
leaving lightness white:

footprints, fingerprints,
a dropped lens cap,

there is where i backtracked
when the sun broke out,

there is where the tourists posed
in a row for their portrait,

here is where a dizzy bird
disappeared

five hour drive; we arrive in Little Harbour
by late evening, along a wavering road
paralleling the river's broad curve
until a final culvert funnels it into estuary.

three kids clambering out of a cramped car,
tattered books on the backseat floor.

narrow white stairs, and a screen door
where grandparents wait to greet us
with capable embraces, eyes squinting into smiles,
and chuckles calculating how much we've grown.

kids i don't know
walk bicycles past stacks of lobstertraps
as dad and i lug in the suitcases.

the richly bitter smell of turr
quickly fills a small kitchen.
a dinner of boiled roots (potatoes, carrots, parsnip, turnip),
and this ash-fleshed seabird, a delicacy
tasting faintly of oil and salt water.

someone brings in a chair from the hallway;
seven plates crowd a spindly-legged kitchen table
where tomorrow we'll eagerly upend and empty
a piggybank heavy with coins they've saved,
a year's spare change clattering, young hands
fanning for loons among pennies.

from the livingroom window we watch the river
swell with tide, while seagulls reel and squall.
sunlight glitters the faceted glass of a small chandelier,
and my grandfather's accordion in the corner.

fingers find the dangling cord, and a single bulb
throws shadows throughout the cellar.
i found a secret once, tucked between ceiling beams:
it fluttered to the floor, red as a cardinal feather,
and we unfolded, in awe, an unfamiliar prime minister
and a snowy owl: a fifty dollar bill. reluctantly
we turned in the treasure, and my grandfather laughed
at his forgetfulness, but didn't let us keep it.

i am someone who always knows
precisely what is in my pockets
(keys, pocketwatch, wallet, camera, hands)

night snow, needlelike, almost a mist
of mosquitobites suspended, sharp coldness
salting bare skin. i rarely wear a hat,
hair frosted with icecrystals, hands tucked in pockets,
my feet weatherbeaten, thickened
from roaming one road or boulevard too many.
montreal makes me sleepy, makes me wide awake
at the same time.

i keep seeking approximations
of wilderness: trees posed precariously atop tall buildings,
plastic owl scarecrows, acrylic landscapes in a gallery window.
i squint pigeons into bluejays, grayjays, an occasional peregrine,
and wander mont-royal alone, pretending it is possible to be lost.

i often contemplated camping out on the balcony, conjuring a bonfire
out of clouds and moon, streetlights marshmallows stuck on sticks,
and a midsummer wind whispering ghost stories of the city kind:
the bonelike snap of broken ice or broken glass, a plastic bag
made phantasmal by alleyway wind, wild bicycles rattling chains,
or skeletons of shopping carts marooned on traffic islands....