As a boy I played
on the grounds of a convent

One day the sky turned green
wind ripped trees from the ground

I ran into the grotto of Mary
afraid of the wind
and the sword of lightning
that cracked above me

Then I fell asleep
under the statue
as though compelled

When I woke
the storm had passed
I was saved

The fragrance of roses was in the air
and tears from her eyes
wet my cheek

There are no records or photographs
but mourners lined blocks to visit.
Some waited hours
but couldn’t say
to whom they were paying respects,
almost as though the longer they waited,
the more a mass amnesia set in.

Conspiracy theorists
claimed the coffin was empty:
it was all a hoax,
to cover up a cover up
or rig an election,
but conspiracy is hardly the point.

Let’s say people
lined up to visit an empty coffin.
Shouldn’t we be weeping for that?

The shadow of a heron
Ripples over the waters.
If not for the wind
Its stillness would be magic.

The shadow of a hawk
Soars over the waters.
If not for the marsh
Its wings would separate.

A canoe on the marsh
Glides past the reeds.
If not for the oars
The sun couldn’t follow.

The marsh is a mirror.
The water is the sky.
If not for the moon
Humankind would drown.

I heard orange.
It’s the first time I’ve heard a colour.
I can’t tell you how.
It happened in an instant.
I couldn’t see the oriole
But the melody was orange,
Warm and bright
Like a sunset in song.

I am the eye of a shadow
I am in the fabric of being
The flesh of time
The space between leaves
The light between layers of bright
The weave of the wind
Feeling my way between realms
Forever dust shining
A ripple across a pond
The it of a bit
A negative on light
A reflection on air
A raindrop on your lips
A kiss from life

You will not forget me

My father’s trapped
In the window of his barbershop
Immured in foam and mirrors
Shaving the same customer
Counting his tips
And sweeping hair
Flipping the same 1977 calendar
Listening to the same radio
Reading the same paper
About the same wars
Elvis dying over and over
I look through the glass of time
I see my father there

for my brother

What a beautiful guy my brother was,
Music was his heart.
It must have started with the lyric
Of being born to sound
And dancing in infant space.
It must have started when an angel
Left behind a harp and trumpet
And he composed his life around music.
He spent every penny on the perfect note,
And introduced us all
To the sounds he was hearing.
His silence still ringing in my ears.

At the table, discussing
Those we’ve lost to time
And the cancers of living,
While outside
The rain’s long green grief
Falls over my woodlot
Like the tears of God
Grieving what we were
Who we are
What we’ve become.
The wind’s chrism cloths
Then soak up the water
But grief grips the leaves
Slowly dripping
In those tender drops
That fall softly from your eyes.

For everyone,
This drop of potion
And fair sustenance.
For everyone,
A portion of peace,
The death of war.
For everyone
Some painlessness
And cheerful memory.
For everyone,
This teardrop of joy.
For everyone, this love.
This sadness and love.

I will love you even when I am gone.
I will love you even when I am dust.
What has flowered cannot be undone.
It exists like the lotus, in overlapping existences.
Love is not the body nor the soul.
It is something written with our ashes.
It is the last star in a barren skull.
It is the gleam of light on unearthed bone.
The creator of love
Did not mean it to be perfect, but forever.