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Poetry

Morning is overwhelming

توسط نوامبر 10, 2021سپتامبر 15th, 2022بدون نظر

At 4:30am,
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 everyone does,

If only Ann keeling would 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 delicate body of waters,

Chirping of birds,

Murmur of the Summer winds,

The Fish fished with tender baits,

Faint falling of the leaves,

Gentle descend of Snow, and

Glory of the salty sweat when you’ve done a day’s of work all day long all day long,”

Now, couldn’t I just learn?

I don’t know