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I see an adjectival world.
And I consider all
nouns improper.

In freezing rain—
in March—
in a cold place
filled with diffident people.

There is no antonym for freezing rain I recognize.


She moves with a dignity inspired by fear,
she is beautiful—
she knows it,
& yet she needs something more.

Little Flower I have
lost my faith
in poetry—
in the veritas of it all.

But Happy Birthday Baby,
although you may be in the arms of someone new,
I know no thing better than the beauty
I see in you.


Ah! existential.

Silence is favoured
in this estate.

As quiet as the sixty-cycle,
as the deaf,
the dead whippoorwill.


A Dream

I see a grand procession—these
are dead poets before me—here too
are the dabblers—
am I destined to
be here?

I see a procession
of Protestant Princes
on the final
march past.
An opulent House of Orange—
oil & diamonds—
heads all held high,
ready, even eager, to die,
for a near-forgotten cause:
committed—still they pause....


I love you
& as I construct
the details of this delusion
the past rolls back on me.

Delusions, I guess,
can be real—
as your body
is real—
and stuns me.

You are a beautiful


Say you love me.
Even lie.

You move, hesitant,
across a room made barren
by your presence.

Later, in 3/4 time,
we shall waltz away to our puerile pleasures,
(I do so pray.)

- Sweet & Sour Nothings (Apt. 9 Press, Ottawa, 2010)

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