On 4:30 a.m.,
Morning is overwhelming . Water is heavy,
over the riverbed body, there,
on the Mill Dam . Beyond 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 into 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 night?
Are you awake if it’s 4:30 a.m.?
.
I don’t know.
I am not from here.
.
Are you aware of the hours’ 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 Owen Sound, a Moon, idling down the road, or even up, when the time’s 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’d go out of her way, find, and bring 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 The Mayoral Calm, I’d stop looking
.
It’s 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., where it hits one of the Second Ave.’s.
It’s a good spot.
Almost perfect.
Under a layer of cobwebs specially made for the intersection, where I’m 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 that I’ll never be found
.
When Judy was running, I ran along.
She said “Nice”. I said “Yes”,
but I said “Nice” afterwards, in earnest.
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 give me
a hand to cut a patch
of the asphalt
for a bed, you see, can’t help it, I am used, to life on the roughs
.
“I wouldn’t,” she’d say.
“Surely you can learn,” she’d say, “to love the silk of water, cheerful singing of the birds, serene falling of the leaves, soft murmur of the wind, soothing spread of the snow, sweet sweat when you’ve worked, happily, all day long, standing up for your own precious self”…
.
Now,
couldn’t I just learn to become?
to belong?
I don’t know.
I am not from here.
2004
Owen Sound