in the body of the text
dear muse,
& i am wondering
missing montreal, now london
the way you talkt brazil
its getting overcast, & im thinking
of never leaving second nature
the big scheme of things
the talk of all those western canadians
& french theatre types
dumbfounded by the thought of existence
how in these acts can i compose
or by the way compose myself
impartial to these acts themselves
the city that i live in never built
for all these feelings, hold their own
release
in spaces based on everything surrounding
how tell anyone anything
you can be competitive & still aligned
talk abt everything in the art gallery
broke in half & broken
i am winter, broken, disasters
i have still survived
as setbacks, tremours
back to where it started, my small world
easing slowly back
scraps of another brief summer if this were drama, the artifices
on the balcony, where you would
not let me
the neighbours, long
on silver
as light turned left, it cooled
yr exposing olive
blue
given the levity of the above
if these are, then, roses
stop to smell
, the moisture
of first-summer air
diminished
airless rooms
& breathable glare
& all the signs
that point
on the bike path,
flavour
of a squirrel
we would prefer to do our probing in colour
if every time you spoke
the sun falls wallace stevens down
next summer
the guts of the enterprise are such
& such
this is the moment that remembers
earlier moments
& this is the one the follows
a foot away, you are as far away
as you have ever