Hurricane

Inside his clock, a man sees
time negotiate curves in an opposite
direction. He emerges into life
from death. Mid-aged sons and
daughters dwindle to his first
delivery room view. His wife
begins as a completed book and ends
with her first word on their first
date. And the man -- he falls
from crutches into a swimming
hole on a tepid summer afternoon --
surfaces as potential -- two
lovers on a rainy morning.

I lie on wet grass -- stare
into the hurricane's blue eye --
the clock-wise curls of energy.
Yesterday on the weather channel
the widdershins movement
froze me with approaching history.

if books read each other isn't that like making love?

well no / or yes / or an arranged marriage between reader and word /
the places we perch / the places we crouch / the places we orchestrate
in a flood of angel words / look for the rhythm / look for the love

look for the sun floating on a sea of sky westward / ever westward
like fame on a train to Hollywood posterity / notoriety / forever
searching along the beaches for tracks you might recognize as

a string extending from pyroclastic beginnings into the shallows
along a lazy river / fishing line disappearing into the face of God /
smiling Jesus Christ / twelve pages are asking for a divorce

The Effortless Cost of Flying

you’d think time would behave / prow
to stern / and ripples be the children of moments’
hand shadows / hand puppets enacting
the play of events / you’d think you standing
in the line for coffee would throw a line
to the cashier / expect to be tied to a
shoreline of Tim-cups and hic-cups after beer

you’d think that events would settle like feathers
from a tagged swan swimming in the park
pond / you’d think the statues would stand up
and swim to their place in molasses history
entangled in sunsets and white chairs escaping
from patio café’s / arms akimbo / unaccustomed
to any freedom outside the pages in which they survive

you’d think the story would take chapter breaks
for coffee or tea / and perhaps an instructor willing
to lead through stretching exercises designed to
leave space for desert / a saccharin denouement
after the plot has thickened and stalled on the same
rocks forever moving us through history / one unit
like another / unlike anything else / a prejudice

Dreams

from crib to grave a reason
that sunlight strikes the innermost places –
alights like wind on the backs of October leaves
and whips them down the street
and they become – the waking dream
which twists bone into steel – milks
magic from the backbones of evening meals –
infuses the streets to the movie house
with the ethics of heros – injects speech
into the voices of the mute and irons
the wrinkles from a game of street hockey
played Saturday night under full moon
and a full house of houses – each with a vision
that flickers between them being there
and not – some bodies have set sail
for tropical sands – some bodies have
lost their oars – and a bottle floats – an empty
bottle floats out of dead eyes whose last
vision was the miracle of a full sink
of dirty dishes – oh hallelujah! hallelujah! --
from crib to grave the dishes march –
toy soldiers – tin gods – no time to prepare for war
when the dishes wait to be washed –
oh hallelujah! – five sinners and a patriot
were born from the game and a smiling face
went to Russia – another starved while insane –
oh hallelujah! the world is upheld
with miracles – the world is guided by faith –
six boys are being called home tonight –
John / Gord /Bob / Tim / Maurice / and Sid –
all from the edge of an ocean and the sound
of creaking timber – some ships negotiate
the whitecaps of humanity – travel without wind –
travel by worlds grouped into magic spells –
and each sentence is a pull of the oar –
each fantasy breaks down the concrete of reality –
each movement of the dance decides
the patterns in the swarming seconds –
from crib to grave life is the dream against the pain

Rio de Janeiro

These faces lost are found again –
everywhere a reminder of
the disappeared / the unaccomplished /
the thread stretched / out of the door
and into a sultry night / a southern route
that snapped.

Your face – which becomes
the neighbourhood’s face / the city’s
infrastructure / the moment when / you turned
and someone
remembered your smile –
this face is silent.

This face is rain and drought.
It fades into memory knots
that unravel between
August and December. We are
reminded one moment / again before
colour turns to / sepia

and new loves are / consummated / on a dwindling pile of ashes.