Poem of the Week

I don’t want to see the city through

myself anymore. I imagine an open body

stuck with pins and flags ready

for labelling. The city is a city of constant

sidewalk repairs and household renovations.

If I could lay my hands on the interior walls

I would know enough to miss myself.

The city is a city of streets named

after saints and explorers. On the dock

I am cold. I imagine myself

at an art gallery looking at installations

and not pretending there can be

any sort of understanding.

But somewhere the water

may meet the unseen shore

and someone like you believes

it happens. There

is a line where they touch.

I would like to speak

to that line and have it speak

to me in return.