Hands II

with awkward hands

you set me down

in a field of garbage

to hide a few things

within a blade of grass

This Town VIII (I Can't Remember)

dawn breaks

in time for dusk,

pulls a scab back,

reveals the rawness

of flesh exposed

beneath pot-holed

streets,

each drop of oil

leaves its mark,

ready to burn,

while smog creeps

in, settles to rest

at the feet of ancient

streets covered

with tar and dust,

grass gives rise

to an orange haze

that makes its way

into the bloodstream,

colours the sky

a sickly shade of red

this town

can't remember

and neither

can I

This Town VII

i wait for a bus

i know i've already missed

and recall the feel

of the grass from Moore's Meadow

in the palm of my right hand.

it's this town, the cutbanks

and muddy waters

that converge on absurdity,

the midtown valleys that hide

in the past, rocks that jut out

of the ground deliberately.

this town is constantly changing

as i trudge through my sleep

through battered statues

that hold me deep

beneath the bones

in some familiar way.

and the trees no longer

moan and sway in gusts of agony,

though they tell

of misdirection and slight-of-hand

and a commodity that verges

on the plague of necessity.

every little trail leads me

deeper into the bowl, closer to its core

where even the weeds have something

meaningful to say, but

they mumble in tongues

and look away.

in the dark we almost

become friends

and listen to dogs bark

at the shadows between the trees.

we bark back,

unaware

of the significance

of our conversation

and when it's too quiet

to hear anything

it's gone.

Hands I

her hands tremble

while the grass

yellows in the sun