Poetry Archives Bio
June 11, 2018
1:40 AM
sixteen ninetyfive

To Sophie Grace Shields

happy people are all alike
every unhappy person is unhappy in her own way

almost as if to make the point
kate spade and anthony bourdain
hang from their snarls like the last leaves of fall

but you  my small big furry faun
come  stay with me


there are so many rooms  so little space here
in this house  and soon each place with plastic straws
will come to break the camels' backs

why must each word be a frustrated repetition
an empty ring recurring with its entry point effaced?

you'd like a resolution to the dawn?  go on
and pull that party parachute  according to tradition
in unison we'll state  "like this I die!


shall i compare thee to a summer's day?
shall i compare thee to an apple pie?

i love you  and your hair it smells like memories
your breasts like challah sanctified
your eyes when you have woken up yet still at rest

your small dog's sour moist thanks
your short but deep and strong iambic breath


you simply make me to forget
my back (fast fractured in tercets of pain
fur on the pillow where my head was  and again

your body opens wide to me just like the country
your nethers are a soup upon my tongue

imbrued a touch  interminably sour and sweet
a bag of brass pipes of all size unmatched
sits calmly by your sleeping feet


and undergarments hang from antlers
like so much prey

the light falls heavy through the tilted slats
and while I sleep i dream  one day I'd like to meet
that forest jesus  he'd take me by the hand

your panties in my pocket as we walk
discussing politics or latest podcasts on the cbc


but no  just as my father drives me home
I hear the stereo insist in leonard cohen's voice
that jesus was a sailor  so of course

he'd have not much to do within that orchard
for it's the kind of place where you can't tell it slant

the facts then  you need me as much as I need you
and no one else  all water freezes but sometimes it flows
most poems that we call complete are finished  tortured


the price of oneway ferry ticket to your house
is sixteen dollars ninetyfive  how strange
I haven't counted every syllable inside this poem