#CanadianWriters
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.
This is the plum season, the night… blue and distended, the moon hazed, this is the season of peach… with their lush lobed bulbs that glow in the dusk, apples
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.
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 do not mean the symbol of love, a candy shape to decorate cakes with, the heart that is supposed to belong or break;
She reclines, more or less, Try that posture, it’s hardly lang… Her right arm sharp angles. With her left she conceals her amb… Shoes but not stockings,
You’re sad because you’re sad. It’s psychic. It’s the age. It’s… Go see a shrink or take a pill, or hug your sadness like an eyeles… you need to sleep.
Winter. Time to eat fat and watch hockey. In the pewter mo… a black fur sausage with yellow Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed… to get onto my head. It’s his
In winter the beach is empty but south, so there is no snow. Empty can mean either peaceful or desolate. Two kinds of people walk here:
Two voices took turns using my eyes: One had manners, painted in watercolours, used hushed tones when speaking
The snake hunts and sinews his way along and is not his own idea of viciousness. All he wants… a fast grab, with fur and a rapid pulse, so he can take that flutter…
The house we built gradually from the ground up when we were yo… (three rooms, the walls raw trees) burned down last year they said
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…
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,
Starspangled cowboy sauntering out of the almost– silly West, on your face a porcelain grin, tugging a papier-mache cactus