Poem Written on a Circle
The hospital is a strong animal.
Never more lustral and barbaric
than when entered before dawn, in chill
drizzle, and exited a half-day later
in sheeny damp, twilight spangling gutter water.
It could never be my ally or my enemy.
I harbour an abundance it can never quite despoil,
which it does me the honour of despising openly.
The traffic jam on Avenue Road is an abundance
too, forest of ruby taillights thrusting
such opulence silently ahead.
Home again, I read a few ancient poems, too
tired to take them in deeply but needing their
pine-cliff vistas. Dusk sways, scenting the air
with pollen curtains. I fix myself a salmon
sandwich. Switch on a dead man’s lamp.
(Tangent: Lines by a Bed)
Lees of loss, typhoon renewals—all mapped.
Can you tack into the strangeness that is sanity?
In. Out? Spirit bubble in your throat the whole
globe’s turning. Hold it, floating, a moment longer.
Shadow is light’s mute ecstasy.