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

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.

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.