Hour Six

On three square blocks I’ve lived a good life
Home, work, grocery, liquor, books, clothes
Everything I need I can get on foot
Everything I don’t need too.

Hour Five

A twelve month
A waymarker
A handful of gleanings
The sound of her words expanding their meanings

The winter that won’t end
The greenest of greens
The water on the highway
The crisp, crisp blue

There is only ever this:
Unclench your fists

Hour Four

This week
I touched it, found it prickly, drew blood
drank, found myself changed, drew blanks
stayed up late with a scab and a buzz,
Woke to force words and conclusions

I drive out, drop anchor, see
Buoyed by open water,
sea green.

Hour Three

I moved garden furniture on a Friday
So I could write all day today
And watch dogs float by on paddle boards
Owners stroking slowly

Hour Two

The no-fun queen of Centre Island threatened the flora and fauna, and the creepy crawlies. Dew between their toes, shiny and sparkly, the star, the fairy and the superhero got word from a bumble bee in the backyard. “she’s bad, so, so bad” it buzzed.
“there’s a battle here!” The superhero said, pointing to his chest. So they grabbed their bikes, kids’ subway tickets, hearts racing, the new streetcar clanging warnings, turning heads, and the boat-ferry making a big noise from its core, and all three talking at once about what was in store, what was to come, how they would do battle and what could be done.Their magic wasn’t in wings or wands, it was in sneakers and bubble gum,
It was in doing, being, standing up, going in plainclothes but all robed up for flora and fauna and creepy crawly things, for the sake of the prince, the princess, the good king.

*written with the help of my cousins, aged 5 and a half and three.

Hour One

I am one part pixels, one part change
I am neither mountains nor plains
I am not who I said I was
Nor who you say when you say my name
I am what I am
As for what I could be?
No one can change as quick as they can see the need.

Hour Twenty-Four

The vision will die
if you do not rest,
if you do not give in to real dreaming,
the dream will end.

The light casts elegant shadows across the grass, the hedge
Dulled by the grey yesterday, the colours are radiant by contrast
Back to daylight, beginning again, for most

But, rest now
The vision will die,
The dream will end,
My friend, oh my friend.

Hour Twenty-Three

The green wingback chairs, the cookie drawer,
Sandwiches made with butter and honey,
The dinners and back rubs and lullabies under pale coverlets,
Gifts of precious time and of money.

Surprised by this saltwater
Out of sight, out of mind, is a powerful lie.

Hour Twenty-Two

Impossibly white, white skin
Black velvet skirt, cinched in

For whom does she turn her gaze –
the unseen partner locked in her eyes
or the one pulled in by their absence
– For whom does she turn.

The woman will ease out of the corset, release her hair.
The morning birds will trade their songs,

Hour Twenty-One

Staring up at the ceiling, asking silenced questions.
“What would you do if you could do anything?”

Staring up at the ceiling, making preparations.