Sunday, August 07, 2005

Crossing to South Baymouth

There’s always one person
leaned over the rail, head
angled toward unheard
streets, their cosy (as small
is often named) bars and
the ferry cleaves on through
indifferent water.

Early morning, the world
is mist, scattered islands
indistinct promises.
This is the beginning
of Ontario north.

Between Tobermory
and South Baymouth, we’re at
the same latitude as
Venice, though everything
is different here—we’re
on the nose of the north
and Venice—ah Venice
is a southern promise
of masks and canals and wine.

Perception—how the mind
dances with overheard
words and ideas, twists
them in the same way
we twist the sheets on a
restless night, awaken
to tell the world we dreamed.

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