Social Distancing




7:30 a.m. is denied entry
streets wide open like veins with a stent
neighbours hoarding clouds
good thing supply is endless
horizon clawing at your window
sky a fancy name for controlled falling
time to know your clothes
from the inside out
brew some cortisol in your Keurig
touch the TV remote like a saint’s femur
somewhere in a bunker
a child forgets the sun
somewhere on a gurney
a mother becomes an ancestor





Never has a day been so arbitrary,
the overcast so unsure of its meaning.
Trees stammer through the sky like a Latin text,
an exam in a class they never attended.
A robin sings but it’s just a demo
that will languish on its hard drive.
Gravity has been working out,
makes cans of soup into oil drums.
The cat wakes from a vehement sleep
then licks his paws to excess.
He bites me, hard, as dawn
is blackmailed into coming.


Pedestrians cross the street to avoid burning one another.
Each one has a flint and jerrycan,
each one is made of birchbark, dry sphagnum and newspaper.
Each one is a manuscript ready to send its smoke
into the firmament, its signals, its cries for help, its ambulance wails.
Inside my house, no-one would know if I went up in flames.
My low moans, my rocking back and forth, my bubbling fat.
So much silence here that nothing can break.
So much darkness, with only a lit match to guide me






March in a small city is what happens
when red, blue and yellow mix into a slurry.
The ground has been spread with wet dog pelts
and the buildings turn neurotic.
It is a finger pressed against the lips,
a signal not to argue but concede the point
to a friend you disagree with.
It is the hush in the room as you sleep off a virus,
each breath in asking if there’s time,
each breath out shrugging maybes,
shuffling its feet, too nervous to meet your gaze.







%d bloggers like this: