This City is a Murder
The vena cavae of the city, a murder of crows—
crossing to all the dumpsters, a roving,
A Meditation on the Garden
That night must have been lonely.
His pack of stray dogs had all scattered,
Entering the City of the Dead
Train sways slightly with the
heat-bent movement of the tracks,
Before a New Job
Evening silhouettes on the white-blue sky.
Stone shadows, cool on my skin.
The Labours of Spring
The chill of Spring has made us strangers.
The sky, in opaque blues, hides last month’s
Van Slam
At the Vancouver Poetry Slam, a month ago. Some of this might sound familiar.
Driftwood Vol. 1
I was privileged to be able to work with some good friends on a collection of our poetry