Coming Accustomed

coupling thunder

always at dawn

nascent daily

symphonic noise

jolting  awake

lulled again

only trains

only trains


evaporate beach

winter, summer

landmarks stay

vaguely new

tides baptismal

driftwood pummelled

shifted storms

shifted storms


stories breathing

taut in skin

parallel plots

meeting rooms

soft acquiescence

now we see

we overlap

we overlap

God in the Shower

face in the water stream

niagara of golden light

distraction from cells

draining away

refuge from

this infinitesimal

falling to pieces

I recall your

hand on my hip

the way you lift

my cheek a little and

hold it there

meanwhile pieces of me

alarmingly wash away

my fingers slide on wet tiles

trying to catch this moment

and the sense of you

and golden light

and life itself

Mistake of Sunshine

a mistake of sunshine

dust dances at your feet

I gaze at your coffee spoon

avoid green half-truths

in your eyes, your face

the eye still pursues what we

don’t want to see – once-

you had no desire to be

guarded with me


insistent on sandals

toes freeze

as fall descends


I grasp summer’s

heat, the way it radiates



pale tepid sun

beckons socks and sweaters –



I wrote a poem

about yearning

tried to pull you into me


like sun on skin

sinking deep in pores

worked to overwhelm


your coyness

you stayed like

a sweater worn casually


for a time then the

armour – wool socks to my

bare, painted toes




I stare down this mid- life restlessness, this feeling that it isn’t enough, that I am bursting with love that I can’t seem to find a home for and think of those clichés about tending one’s own garden, know somehow I am tending mine wrong, and the love that I give is parceled up, “friend,” “lover,” as if our hearts are glass, “love isn’t nice, we are meant to break our hearts and love the wrong people”, and I swoon every time, mostly encounter indifference, and that hurts, I try not to harden, want to look badass but not actually be that way, maybe love is a tap and I should turn mine on and let anyone take from it what he wants, more or less, and I will drink from his, whatever he shares, and not worry, not want so badly to be out in the snow with Nicholas Cage having him say, “I love you, and I want you to come inside and get in my bed”


The Ring

he wears a slim band on his left hand

scratches the ring on the testing stone

explains about the bottles of acid

18 carat, 15 carat, 14 carat, 10

I notice the day’s price of gold on

a white board – changeable

pour the acid there

the right one illuminates the gold

the jewellers were on 10th avenue

he was angry and lurking in the back

she placated, seemed nervous

I wanted something simple, unusual

white gold that swirled from

smooth to gnarled patterns

he never wanted a ring

didn’t want to be branded

didn’t mind that I would be

man with the slim band weighs the ring

plugs numbers into his computer

carat times weight times today’s price

the ring wasn’t ready on time

came in over budget

their marriage was on the rocks

the shop closed soon after

everything portent in hindsight

pour the right acid on a ring

and its true character

shines through



Cool is Sexy

rainstorm, and my hot flash and I

are out out in the garden

naked we feel the grass wet under our feet

and the rain drip down over

our hair to our breasts

our belly and ass jiggle as we jump among

the azaleas, pink in full bloom,

and feel better than we’ve felt all day

as the breeze touches the moisture on our chest

and arms and aching feet and

brings the temperature down a notch

so our veins rescind, and our sweat dries

and our pulse slows

cool, sexy,

glorious cool,

my hot flash and I fucking salute you


I wake early and often

sweat springing from

my neck, my feet, my collarbone

the change of life, or one of many

I’ve been trying to write a poem

about a tightrope, but I no longer

know why, or care

the connection isn’t clear

something about being

tied in knots

holding, binding

an image in my mind

of me suspended, cocoon like

sagging into the ropes

even as I struggle to

break free

it’s a mirror of sorts

that life I get up and live each day

the one where I am tied

to work, to home

to the same worn paths

I’ve now walked for decades

I return to the tightrope

and that elusive balance

and the way the rope is never ending

but some things end – most end

thus the night sweats

and the binds

real and imagined

and the rope

and the urge to let it all go

and fall




I can’t find my therapist

streets of Yaletown look the same

I blame gentrification

wax bars and custom tailors

capitalist sea of things

I can’t afford, don’t understand,

don’t want, don’t need

Kafkaesque this

ten years of confusion

Kafka would also lose

his way in Yaletown

I say to my therapist,

“I got lost again,” and he says

“You are here, on time”

he notices what I do well

while my focus is elsewhere

why can’t I find

a way to his office that

doesn’t find me, ten minutes

prior to my appointment,

gazing at the blo bar, the juice bar,

the distillery, wondering,

where the fuck am I?





Travelling Shoes

Tai chi shoes, he wore, left them at my house

I mailed them, but he’d flown south

I trace his travels in shoes


Here crows fly east at dusk every day

ritual magic carpet

rides – adventure in the sky


map of North America in the light

finger slides here, florida

I trace his travels in shoes


mom sent sandals to Athens but I’d left

for London – that was the past

long ago, when I had wings


he needed walking shoes spent weeks searching

cobblestones found size twelve Keds

I trace his travels in shoes


view from my window busy chickadees

flutter honeysuckle buds

constant motion, ready flight


I trace his travels in shoes