#CanadianWriters
The red fox crosses the ice intent on none of my business. It’s winter and slim pickings. I stand in the bushy cemetery, pretending to watch birds,
What should we have taken with us? We never could decide on that; or what to wear, or at what time of year we should make the journey
There are similarities I notice: that the hills which the eyes make flat as a wall… together, open as I move to let me through; become
My daughter plays on the floor with plastic letters, red, blue & hard yellow, learning how to spell, spelling,
It was taken some time ago. At first it seems to be a smeared print: blurred lines and grey flec… blended with the paper;
Those whose houses were burned burned houses. What else ever happ… once you start? While the roofs plunged into the root-filled cellars,
The world is full of women who’d tell me I should be ashamed… if they had the chance. Quit danci… Get some self-respect and a day job.
Whether is it possible to become l… Whether one tree looks like anothe… Whether there is water all around the edges or not. Whether there are edges or whether
i The children on the lawn joined hand to hand go round and round each arm going into
He would like not to kill. He wou… what he imagines other men have, instead of this red compulsion. Wh… fail him and die badly? He would l… finger by finger and with great te…
All those times I was bored out of my mind. Holding the log while he sawed it. Holding the string while he measured, boar… distances between things, or pound…
Living backwards means only I must suffer everything twice. Those picnics were already loss: with the dragonflies and the clear… What good did it do me to know
Evening comes on and the hills thi… red and yellow bleaching out of th… The chill pines grow their shadows… Below them the water stills itself… a sunset shivering in it.
You, going along the path, mosquito-doped, with no moon, the… a single orange eye unable to see what is beyond the capsule of your dim
There is nothing to be afraid of, it is only the wind changing to the east, it is only your father the thunder your mother the rain