Wednesday, August 05, 2009


Construct of the wordless poem –
emotion and sound – accordion
quietly played after midnight
in cool, humid basement,
concrete walls still leeching odours –
1959 Ontario summer

everything different –
not today when my bladder
wakes me and it’s almost three.

There are no thoughts
of death, though death
often watches me sleep,
then wanders away,
dances through street lights,
gives the finger to the moon,
deconstructs my memories,
which have exceeded
their best before dates.

But this is poem,
unsubstantiated by fact,
deconstructed by time,
left wandering by deserted harbor,
waif of the greater saga,
orphan to the beginning,
though middle and end
continue the debate
over ownership in the court
of where to belong.

1 comment:

Aisha said...

I was waiting for that-- an accordion to creep in somewhere :-)