#CanadianWriters
It was taken some time ago. At first it seems to be a smeared print: blurred lines and grey flec… blended with the paper;
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
Whether he will go on singing or not, knowing what he knows of the horror of this world: He was not wandering among meadows all this time. He was down there
She squats, bare feet splayed out, not graceful; skirt tucked around ankl… Her face is lined and cracked. She looks old,
He is here, come down to look for… It is the song that calls you back… a song of joy and suffering equally: a promise: that things will be different up t…
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
In the burned house I am eating b… You understand: there is no house,… yet here I am. The spoon which was melted scrapes… the bowl which was melted also.
I do not mean the symbol of love, a candy shape to decorate cakes with, the heart that is supposed to belong or break;
Starspangled cowboy sauntering out of the almost– silly West, on your face a porcelain grin, tugging a papier-mache cactus
The water turns a long way down over the raw stone… ice crusts around it We walk separately along the hill to the open
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
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.
Secrecy flows through you, a different kind of blood. It’s as if you’ve eaten it like a bad candy, taken it into your mouth,
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
She has been condemned to death by… may escape this death by becoming… woman by marrying the hangman. But… time there is no hangman; thus the… There is only a death, indefinitel…