Writing

Last night I wandered through the moon’s deep dust, Flung far across an intervening void By wan Diana, clad in waxen robes;

What is a mark in time but reckoning of it? Each anniversary carries in a small black pouch Strapped to its belt, a slight reminder

To pause at the lip of this voiceless place To wait at the brink of this frozen dream And feel its dead breath seep through waiting space

Nor glass nor stainless steel now comes between My wide eyes and their vision steeped in sleep – Of things that live yet live divorced ...

The ships lie out on English Bay Bright-lit like floating beacons Vancouver with her spangled hands And accents of exotic strands

My distillate of summer, that red mane Learned color from a dawn-exploding sun; And smooth stream-polished pebbles of green jade That glow..

The man in the moon Slouched up through the sky And he heaved up his shoulders And gave such a sigh That the stars in their spheres

The bells split distance as the night air splits Our breaths’ dim shadows from the forest floor, Making of each moonlit exhalation