At 4:30 a.m.
Morning is overwhelming
Water is heavy over the riverbed-body, there
on the Mill Dam
Outside Margaret’s window
Night lingers, longing to seep in, to enfold
I’ve counted all the turns the wind took
before blowing away
In a minute I’ll go out in to the outside
To build my house across the road
It is that hour again, when everyone has a door
to open and shut
Is it morning, when it’s 4:30 a.m
Is it not
Are you awake, if the clock says it’s 4:30 a.m.
I don’t know
I am not from here
Are you aware of the hour’s sly hand
Ticking on the wall on the Carnegie Hall
All the while you are building your house
by the fireplace
I know nothing beyond the windows of the house
I am building tonight
I saw the moon, yesterday, before noon, crazy
Walking up the streets, pretending, hah, to be a lone star
I am not sure now, but here in the Owen Sound, a Moon
Idling down the road, or even up, when the time is indeed reserved for the Sun
is unheard of
The night is loud, selfishly dark
I’m getting out of the house
To build my house on the
backstreets of the Harrison Park
Should I turn left
Right
I am not sure
Who am I to know
I am not from here
If I had the means, I would call Ruth
She’d know
She said she would go out of her way to
find and match all the answers to the question, leave it in the fridge for me to have some
if I wished, with my tea
Now if only she’d tell me how she keeps
the head of the goddess inside the hat of mayoral calm
I’d stop looking
It is loud
Night is in to stay till 7 a.m
I am not particularly sick
I am not particularly not
I am sitting on my bed
I am sitting on my bed
I am sitting on my bed
I am sitting on my bed
When it’s light outside, I’ll go to build my house
On the right corner of 9th St., when
it hits one of the Second Avenues
The Avenue is a good spot, almost perfect, covered by a layer of cobwebs specially made for the intersection where I am always un-delivered, between the two post offices
But, who am I to know
I am not from here
If Judy doesn’t hold my hand, I’ll be lost and find I’ll never be found
When Judy ran, I ran
She said, “Nice”
I said, “Yes”
But I said “Nice” afterwards, honestly
it felt as if nice turned suddenly nice, regardless
Then I stopped and walked
into the Bay Shore
to build my house
they say, that’s what every one does
If only would Ann keeling woul
give me a hand to cut a patch of
the asphalt for the bed
I am used, can’t help it
to life on the roughs
“I wouldn’t,” she’d say, “Surely you can learn,” she’d say
“to love the soft body of water
the soft singing of birds, the
soft leaves falling, the soft
wind’s murmur, the soft fish fished, the
soft snow spread, the soft
sweet sweat when you have
worked, happily, all day long
Now, couldn’t I just learn
I don’t know
—
Owen Sound , Ontario
2003
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