REGRET
I’d like to take back my not saying to youthose things that, out of politeness, or caution,
I kept to myself. And, if I may—
though this might perhaps stretch the rules—I’d like
to take back your not saying some of the things
that you never said, like “I love you” and “Won’t you
come home with me,” or telling me, which
you in fact never did, perhaps in the newly refurbished café at the Vancouver Art
Gallery as fresh drops of the downpour from which
we’d sought shelter glinted in your hair like jewels,
or windshields of cars as seen from a plane
that has just taken off or is just coming in
for a landing, when the sun is at just the right angle,
that try as you might, you could not imagine
a life without me. The passionate spark
that would have flared up in your eye as you said this—
if you had said this—I dream of it often.
I won’t take those back, those dreams, though I would,
if I could, take back your not kissing me, openly,
extravagantly, not caring who saw,
or those looks of anonymous animal longing
you’d throw everyone else in the room. I’d like
to retract my retracting, just before I grabbed you,
my grabbing you on the steps of the New York
Public Library (our failure to visit
which I would also like to recall)
and shouting for all to hear, “You, you
and only you!” Yes, I’d like to take back
my not frightening the pigeons that day with my wild
protestations of uncontrolled love, my not scaring
them off into orbit, frantic and mad,
even as I now sit alone, frantic and mad,
racing to unread the book of our love
before you can finish unwriting it.
LOBSTERS
tend to cluster in prime numbers, sub-
oceanic bundles of bug consciousness
submerged in waking slumber, plunged in pits
of murk-black water. They have coalesced
out of the pitch and grime and salt suspended
within that atmospheric gloom. Their skin
is colorless below. But when exposed
to air, they start to radiate bright green,
then, soon, a siren red that wails: I’m dead.
The meat inside, though, is as white as teeth,
or the hard-boiled egg that comes to mind
when one cracks that crisp shell and digs beneath.
Caress the toothy claw-edge of its pincer
and you will know the single, simple thought
that populates its mind. The lobster trap is elegance
itself: one moving part: the thing that’s caught.
Tom Thomson Indoors
The installation man didn’t understand:
“You want your doorbell on the inside, sir?”
Well, yes – didn’t he grasp it? Only fair
that prior to intruding on’t, he give
the world some sort of warning. (Not that world
had shown the converse courtesy to him . . .)
Now stands he in his foyer, on the verge
of entering the outside – how will it be,
how changed since last time? – sounding patiently
and regular as Kant – every twelve seconds –
that calm announcing bell. Will someone come
and let him out? At some point. Understand:
all good things come to those who wait. And then,
wait just a bit more, and they go again.
ON LOCATION
Even in the midst of my dream I found myself in a field of wildflowers.
Even in the midst of those flowers I stood alone, like an antenna, like a lighthouse in
the ocean.
Even in the midst of that light I felt, deep in my chest, a scared animal’s craving for
darkness.
Even in the midst of that darkness I could hear the cicadas’ song.
Even in the midst of song I remembered that I had been born in a bowl of silence.
Even in the midst of silence the words of my language swarmed around me like flies.
Even in the midst of that swarm I could hear the director shouting Action!
Even in the midst of all that action I managed to take your hand.
Even in the midst of that swarm, that song, that silence, I found the resolve to kiss
you.
Even in the midst of that kiss I knew you and I would end up on the cutting room
floor.
WANT
Who’s to say I’m a poet? I fear I want
too much: to live a life like a song
that’s picked up by others’ lips when I find it
has passed from my own. A wandering kiss
my spirit will live in. Your house, even when it
is empty, yet speaks in a faltering voice,
like waves on the lakeshore we both know. My heart
grows younger with time, its slow, serene stammer
like waves on the lakeshore. We both know my heart
is empty, yet speaks in a faltering voice:
My spirit will live in your house even when it
has passed from my own, a wandering kiss
that’s picked up by others’ lips when I find it
too much to live. A life like a song?
Who’s to say? I’m a poet. I fear. I want.
