Spring pries at me
Spring makes me sick for coastal cities.
All that burgeoning! Crowds and leaves.
Going for a walk is its own aperitif,
air in the nose like cracked pepper.
Diesel and lilac drift together,
hang around, drift apart.
Such is the nature of ports.
Listen, down by the tracks
seagulls are prying open that rusty box again.
Still Standing in Front of the Door
Thirty years collapse in the hot stench of concrete
to a rainy afternoon in a stairwell somewhere.
He was tall and blond, with hands like racehorses.
I was out of my neighbourhood.
Concrete stays damp for days after a rain,
carries the resin of stories in its pores.
And history is no different: it sets,
then somebody knocks away the forms.
Coarse and raffish unexpected visitor
sprawled in the Barcalounger of my nose,
are you telling me I haven’t forgotten a few things
after all? The sweet little ring, or necklace,
or whatever it was he gave me that Christmas? His name?
An hour or so, lodged in me like a clot.
He was bony, and tall, and very blond,
and his hands were thoroughbreds. Tell me,
how long did you say you were planning on hanging around?
The Flower Vendors (Remix)
I woke under the arches of City Hall to the noise of men and women in ravelled sweaters hawking flowers they get from the woods and keep in tin pails. They go into the woods with cutters before sunrise. The bunches are small and tied with blue string. The women who buy them wear cloth coats and count their change. None of the fur ladies go near them. I turned the corner into another yard, bummed a coffee outside a busy café. The sidewalk bricks were very red. If the hawkers are still there when I’m done I might get a bunch, if I can scrape up the means I will, if can scare up I mean
soap
an orange
chocolate biscuits
cherry jam
room
small bunch lily-of-the-valley
