Not certain this is ready yet—a first draft, but I did want to join the party. Helm.
The Making of Eve
I believe the moon wears earrings and shawl—
this October evening—
departing leaves are cymbals brushed
through another tune—waving note’s
tortured and fractured limbs.
Rain bends black windows into tears
and the drink I’ve stretched
across the table’s slow story
dreams such dreams as one might discover—
littered—Wednesday—at ten o’clock—in a neighbourhood pub.
Time passes—horse drawn milk wagon—milk box
to milk box—each minute named. My hand
moves with the ticking seconds
of Nancy—pale blue dress—hair back—
a mole shaped like loneliness on her neck.
I imagine god as an empty glass—waiting—expectant.
In his chair, he creates stories, pushes them towards the maturity of history.
The city materializes in waves—traffic’s surf washed
against rush hour’s dark oil flowing down
sidewalks—leaking from ill-lit stores—
and the machinery of day brands notes on doors—tenor sax
from throats that have forgotten all names.
I have a name—for slow streetlights—
for those blinking eyes passing on prim escalators—
for words between in hallways—for the sounds doors learn
late at night when creaking conversations fade
and the moon hums a tune from history.
I have a name—for streets and wind—I have
a name for rain and trees—I have a name for alleys
and doors which are closed against—for the language of doors
between and for the punctuation of locks,
the metaphors keys become in evening’s tattered sunlight.
I believe in god the trinity, not god the solitary, not god
walking with me through a café, not god sitting with me, drinking coffee.
To speak with you is to place chalk crayons in our hands—
to guide each other’s hands across the sidewalk and to watch
the sketches come into being. We name those snapshots
with poetry—sonnets for sadness—limericks for laughter—
and for love, rhyme separated by distance—yet alike.
To name a morning is to give it sunshine and coffee—
the reflection of your hair in the window—
and recite the story of the peach rose—how our hands
cupped and drank its colour from the air—
to name a morning is to devour it.
The monotheism of love is gray wind’s breath in locks—
petals falling from scree clouds—windows looking into fog.
Look for love in the eyes of a child scaling a harsh
driveway on her tricycle—playing hopscotch over ants—
reaching with her heart into tentative time.
The god of novels and haiku—the god of history is a jealous god.
Yet one stone placed upon another is creation.
Winter kneels on city’s chest—hunter—hunter—killing hope—
and cars gingerly negotiate the rising snow’s tide.
This morning I gathered the paper from the porch—
the roses are under drifts. We drank our coffee—read the news—
and in the kitchen’s silence we locked away our views.
The roadside pines dance to December tunes—slow dances—
cold dances of the number one. I’ll be home soon—
open the door to a dark room where our shoes have mated
through today and stale stories reside. I’ll be home soon—
prepare dinner—wait for you.
I wonder who could so long endure pulling the sun down
into horizon—so long endure in endings were there not a promise
of beginnings to follow—I wonder. As each minute passes
I place it on top of the one before—the phone doesn’t ring.
I will name this an epic in honour of you.
The god of triads is a story-teller—the god of triads is the god of choices—
the god of triads sits in the neighbourhood pub making dust into dust.