X

i.

So I slept in,
missed a speech—
I wasn’t supposed to be there anyway.

ii.

Riding the bus to work is a goodtime for
thought, thoughts on poetry, lines about
consonance: creatively coy and charming,
quietly cunning, climbing kitelike,
quite right, and calling, “catch me, cause it’s a
calm quarantine up here…”

iii.

And the window’s cracked
open as far as it’s allowed,
the breeze unwittingly makes its way in,
ruffling my hair, strangely
reminding me of hot boat rides spent
staring down
a great deep iridescent salty sea,
hopping from one wave to another,
and onto the train; at the station waits another bus.

iv.

The driver’s outside having a smoke,
disinterested in my greeting, I sit behind three
strangers.
When the engine starts and we roll along,
there’s a startling percussiveness, the windows
are rattling, and so we look around in
unison.  I look up, past the frames of my glasses,
noticing the way lamps become yellow dandelions on grey ground,
and now I’m looking curiously out the window,
playing with the focus of my lenses,
seeing things clearly, blearily, a little of both,
the combination is a pleasant headache in the making.

v.

Now we’re over the river, the clouds are hovering low and heavy,
a plane overhead, we’re driving high over the valley, and I almost believe that I
can reach up and collect it as a toy, but moreso I wish I
were flying within, flying to you,
but now it’s disappeared in a fog.

vi.

Here’s a stoplight, a crow lands on the streetlamp,
the clouds break behind its head to reveal a hole of sky,
the first passenger disembarks.

vii.

I look at how the raindrops splatter scatter shatter across the windowpane;
the culinary student escapes to wait at a stop sign dripping 4-WAYs,
and she’s giving me a look as we drive by that says,
“why did it have to rain today?”

viii.

The trails are creating a moist argyle pattern across the glass,
and the headphoned artist is away with his portfolio.
Now it’s me and the driver.  It’s always just me and the driver, in the end.
And my thoughts, scattering about like the rain;
I think about having the camera, but left it at the house,
so I can’t capture the rain pathways, but
I trace them with my fingertip anyway.

ix.

My stop comes short,
so I have to wander across the parking lot,
wending between the motorcycles,
and now the rain falls on my face, my glasses have their own pathways,
my focus is more veiled than ever before,
I wish for once that I had one of the umbrellas you’re so fond of.

x.

A single moment of clarity comes to me.
Thoughts of you,
thoughts
of you,
thoughts of
you are always resting transparently over all the rest,
colouring my experiences, tinting everything of my life
with an element of you.
The poetry, the light,
the plane, the bike,
the music and the focus
and even the crow,
somehow find a way of meaning you.

(from July, 2006.)

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