At sunset, bending out the window
Knowing, sidelong, fields in the avenues
My eyes burn anyhow but I don’t care, I’m still reading
that Book by Erin Mouré.
How she makes me ache! She was a creek’s companion
lost south of St. Clair, a walking prisoner in the city’s freedom.
But the way she saw houses,
And the way she stopped short to look in the avenues,
And gave herself to things, in the same way
You’d gaze at trees,
And lift eyes down Vaughan Road to see where you’re headed,
And notice small crocuses pulse in the ravine.
She never speaks of that ache of sadness,
Never admits it,
Just walks downtown as if in a creek bed catching minnows,
Sad like flowers pressed flat in books
Or plants pressing up green, in yogourt jars …