|
on 4:30am morning is
overwhelming water is heavy over the riverbed body there on the
Mill Dam outside Margaret’s window night lingers longing to
seep in to enfold I have counted all the turns the wind took
before blowing away in a minute I’ll go out into the outside to
build my house across the road it is that hour again when
everyone has a door to open and shut is it morning when it’s 4:30
am? is it night? are you awake when it's 4:30am? I don’t
know I am not from here are you aware of the hour’s sly hand
ticking on the wall on the Carnegie Hall all the while you are
building your house by the fireplace? I know nothing beyond the
windows of the house I am building tonight I saw the moon
yesterday before noon crazy walking up the streets pretending,
hah, to be a lone star I am not sure now but here in Owen Sound,
a moon, idling down the road, or even up, when the time is indeed
reserved for the Sun, is un-heard of the night is loud, selfishly
dark I’m getting out of the house to build my house on the back
streets of the Harrison Park should I turn? left? right? I
am not sure who am I to know I am not from here if I had
the means I would call Ruth she’d know she said she would go
out of her way, find, and bring all the answers to the question,
leave it in the fridge for me to have some, if I wished, with my tea
now if only she’d tell me how she keeps the head of the goddess
inside the hat of mayoral calm, I’d stop looking it is loud
night is in to stay till 7am I am not particularly sick I
am not particularly not I am sitting on my bed I am sitting on
my bed I am sitting on my bed I am sitting on my bed when
it’s light outside I’ll go out to build my house on the right corner
of 9th st. when it hits one of the Second Ave.s it’s a
good spot, almost perfect, under a layer of cobwebs specially made
for the intersection, where I am always un-delivered between the two
post offices but, who am I to know I am not from here If Judy
doesn’t hold my hand I’ll be lost and find that I’ll never be found
when Judy was running I ran she said, Nice I said,
Yes but I said Nice afterwards, honestly, it felt as
if nice turned suddenly nice, regardless then I stopped and
walked into the Bay Shore to build my house they say, that’s
what every one does if only would Ann Keeling give me a hand to
cut a patch of the asphalt for a bed I am used, can’t help it, to
life on the roughs I wouldn’t, she’d say, Surely you can
learn, she’d say, to love the soft body of water, the soft
singing of birds, the soft leafs falling, the soft wind’s murmur,
the soft fish fished, the soft snow spread, the soft sweet sweat
when you have worked, happily, all day long, now, couldn’t I
just learn? how would I know? I’m not from here
morning is
overwhelming
Oct. 7, 2005 Owen Sound
|
