#CanadianWriters
When you hear me singing you get the rifle down and the flashlight, aiming for my… but you always miss and when you set out the poison
i Behind glass in Mexico this clay doll draws its lips back in a snarl; despite its beautiful dusty shawl,
Gone are the days when you could walk on water. When you could walk. The days are gone. Only one day remains,
She squats, bare feet splayed out, not graceful; skirt tucked around ankl… Her face is lined and cracked. She looks old,
You begin this way: this is your hand, this is your eye, that is a fish, blue and flat on the paper, almost
The water turns a long way down over the raw stone… ice crusts around it We walk separately along the hill to the open
The puppet of the wolf I have not made yet encloses my right hand: fur stubbles my wrists, a tongue, avid, carnivorous,
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.
Snow packs the roadsides, sends du… onto the pavement, moves through vision like a wave or sand… The bus charges this winter, a whale or blunt gray
He was the sort of man who wouldn’t hurt a fly. Many flies are now alive while he is not. He was not my patron.
You walked in front of me, pulling me back out to the green light that had once grown fangs and killed me. I was obedient, but
This is the place you would rather not know about, this is the place that will in hab… this is the place you cannot imagi… this is the place that will finall…
Cruising these residential Sunday streets in dry August sunlight: what offends us is the sanities: the houses in pedantic rows, the p…
I would like to watch you sleeping… which may not happen. I would like to watch you, sleeping. I would like to sleep with you, to enter
Starspangled cowboy sauntering out of the almost– silly West, on your face a porcelain grin, tugging a papier-mache cactus