1.
A blue fade: tarantula arms
across Yasunari Kawabata’s
sleeping beauties, petals; these
diminished leaves, another
white wall, poem. Where you sketched
Wayne Gretzky; lifting out, and up
his latest record-breaking win.
2.
Canvas on hardwood; two bare feet,
a claw-tub bathroom and
expansive bookshelves. A period
of morning, mourning
across every battle, the nature
of desire.
3.
The rain, you
wrote, it fell
like rain.
4.
What day of the week did you write
your poem about spiders? Where
did light fall, and in which
direction? I imagine
you by third-storey window,
facing Bank Street, possibly
nineteen eighty-six, or eighty-five,
cascade of businesses long emptied
along the Somerset to Laurier corridor,
dust clouds tunnelling the absolute.
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