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