题记: 加拿大是个极少战事的国家. TORONTO大学的校园里却醒目的竖立着一面墙似的石碑, 上面刻满在世界大战中死难的"多伦多大学" 师生的姓名 　　狮身, 人面
　　而那人面恰好是腼腆的女子或
　　书生, 我茫然
　　看一个幽灵
　　脱壳, 遁入
　　无门之门与一头狮子的血
　　交媾
　　
　　*罌粟的红, 如唇
　　盛开在每年飘雪的日子
　　那是丘比特之箭
　　洞开的, 把他的血
　　绽放在你的胸前
　　
　　时光隧道早已爬满封尘的蛛网
　　论文的纸堆却挡不住他的
　　镜片, 聚焦
　　毛瑟步枪偏离的准星
　　
　　‘我痛恨战争’
　　ST.PARTRICK大道那座名不见经传的教堂
　　一个女人
　　在风中呢喃
　　
　　假如史诗
　　一定要用血浸泡
　　假如刻刀
　　毫不容情地把你留给地狱之火
　　诺贝尔奖章早已熔为**玛尔斯的盾牌
　　谁说战争只属于军人?
　　
　　我看见我的灵魂倒伏
　　在你的脚下, 这
　　是怎样一种情愫
　　把你和我
　　一同揉进了冰冷的石头
　　
　　苏格兰的风笛此刻空悬着
　　没有人给我讲诉那遥远的故事
　　夜, 静悄悄的
　　这是灵魂与灵魂的对话
　　所有的语言
　　都在对视中化为泪水
　　月光柔柔的洒下来
　　吻着你
　　无法抹去的伤痕

【注释】 *每年11月, 加拿大人会在胸前佩带罌粟花, 纪念战争中的死难者。
**在古罗马神话中，把火星比喻为身披盔甲浑身是血的战神“玛尔斯”。

【赏析】 此诗以对战争的诅咒始，而终于对献身正义的英雄颂。这一朵盛开在飘雪的日子的红罂粟有着惊人之美。（谢冕）

本诗表现了对战争的厌恶，对死亡的恐惧。作者深刻而又诗意地传达出人性的普世价值观与悲悯的关怀情愫。（洛夫）

　　晓幕霜天，凝眸处，平湖大雾。
　　影些许，亭阁楼榭，鬼工神斧。
　　新月西沉吟旧曲，黎阳东起吹残烛。
　　叹枯枝，朽叶碾为尘，深秋去。
　　
　　会诗友，聊冬赋，
　　思故里，愁相诉。
　　怅羌笛塞外，涸塘孤鹭。
　　云重天低飞絮冷，风寒水瑟梨花簌。
　　伫早春，三月觅嫣红，梅花怒。

　　1．
　　冰川退去，海水退去，哗的一声
　　我站了起来
　　赤裸裸的 峭壁站了起来
　　冰刀和火
　　陡然推至脚下，我说
　　Mt. Tolmie，我比你还高三尺
　　
　　三尺之外，就是大地的尽头了
　　伟男儿，敞开你温软而赤诚的胸膛
　　脸呈现出太阳舒展开来的血光
　　湿漉漉的发丝
　　散发着时间的灰烬。日落西天
　　
　　天际是血光里捞起的一身黑斗篷
　　只轻轻一甩
　　一座座星体便旋转开来
　　漫天的雪花旋转开来
　　
　　我的公主，你不停地旋转的水晶鞋
　　大地都为你打造出黄金的舞池
　　冰山都为你奉献出洁白的雪莲
　　旋转的记忆，在指尖一点点流逝
　　
　　2．
　　你说，“大卫，天亮之前
　　我一定要找到你！”
　　找到凝固在冰核里的泉水和蜜蜂
　　
　　风吹过来的羊群和翅膀
　　回到各自的主人和高山上的巢穴
　　白羊拥着孩子们奔向心灵的蓝天
　　金色的翅膀承载着原野的梦幻
　　
　　那么神奇的梦，在山泉清澈的瞳孔
　　流淌着的甜蜜和时光。我说我要
　　躲进你温软的体香
　　
　　养很多很多的小鱼和孩子
　　要在冰期君临的一刻
　　打开时光的隧道
　　“天亮之前，我们就出发”
　　
　　现在是公元2006年。听风
　　把我一次次往前推着
　　“大卫，你在哪里？”
　　
　　问石子，问小草，问树，问蜜蜂
　　问鱼，浓雾，蝴蝶，星光，绝壁
　　问大海，问奔腾的冰河
　　
　　3．
　　回首，弓身，灼烧的双臂
　　如果能够蜕变
　　我愿意是——
　　悬崖上难以抑制的鹰
　　张开闪电般的翅膀
　　
　　划破冰期。蓝色的火焰
　　从六月的雨水里包围上来
　　天那么蓝，海那么蓝
　　前方是万丈冰川，冰的前方
　　是一道虚弱的光线。大卫
　　
　　只要你牵着重力的手，就能
　　打开千年前的泉眼，花香
　　打开一只雌鸟血红的嘴唇
　　和洁白的牙齿
　　咬痛，咬痛年轮和冰层
　　
　　我蓦然回首，弓身
　　捡起一枚浑圆的石子
　　多像是你肚脐眼下
　　那枚耻骨，流星一样射出
　　
　　4．
　　除了一寸土，已经没什么
　　可以抓得住。除了一阵海风
　　悄悄绕过背影。除了青苔
　　爬上顽强的额头。除了上山
　　或者下山的脚印，依旧
　　
　　被雨水一路冲洗过去。除了她
　　游离的目光和一把小火
　　“大卫，你不知道
　　今天有多温软”
　　她的小嘴，含着一颗晨光里的露珠
　　和甜。这一刻，她多么满足
　　
　　双臂从背后抱上来
　　燃烧的感觉从背后抱上来
　　她眼含泪花
　　身子温顺，削薄，脆亮
　　生来就没有骨头
　　像水晶玻璃里的金鱼
　　
　　在突然抽空了意义的黑方块里坠落
　　四溅的美丽。她真不知
　　该退回惊涛下淤血的沥青
　　还是枯死在狂风之上的绝壁
　　
　　5．
　　一棵树突然张开了翅膀
　　乌鸦冲下来
　　巨石滚下来
　　雷鸣和闪电顺着头盖骨
　　脊椎和膝盖
　　劈下来——我触摸到你羸弱的内心
　　
　　如果我张开双臂
　　我就是你的一把小纸伞
　　赤脚走回江南小镇，聆听
　　红掌拨开清波
　　鸟鸣打湿青石板
　　嘴唇亲吻白云，那么脆的轻
　　
　　紧紧攥着，只怕一松手
　　就会突然失重，顺着等高线
　　我们是怎样飞临这众山之巅
　　怎么像精灵一样，飞着
　　
　　穿透巨厚的冰层
　　我们双臂绞合着
　　逆行，像一支瘦小的棉灯芯
　　亲吻着铁剪的锈迹和火星
　　
　　这树怎么断开了，抽离出
　　一丝丝惨白的纤维质，和年轮
　　喘着粗气，我怎么摔倒在这众山之巅
　　一节节断开。当听到
　　“大卫，天亮之前
　　我一定要找到你！”
　　我强撑起瘦小的膝盖，像一截断木
　　假肢，强撑起碎裂的脊椎。你能
　　听到巨石滚落深渊的轰鸣
　　看到我的头盖骨 飞出一群小鸟
　　
　　6．
　　春天了。听风轻轻的
　　滑过血红的嘴唇。露珠翻身
　　枝头的太阳微微碎裂
　　
　　蜜蜂采蜜。小刀打开灰页岩层
　　打开鱼化石和缝合线。我听见
　　惨白的牙齿咬碎冰棱的声音
　　天堂的野花绽开的声音
　　
　　很细很轻的蜜蜂飞过冰川
　　飞过一朵雪莲花。我看见
　　自己是一只欢快的工蜂
　　提着两只小木桶
　　站在下一个枝头。听风轻轻的
　　
　　滑过洁白的牙齿
　　“大卫，天亮之前
　　我一定要找到你！”
　　滑过众山之巅
　　一缕白发的沉默
　　抵达眼角的一小块玻璃。春天
　　真的透出些许苍凉
　　
　　7．
　　沿着石壁。会飞的鱼
　　吐出五彩缤纷的泡泡
　　鲕粒是闭不上眼睛的孩子。看
　　所有的生命都是实验的
　　都是在试管里诞生
　　并溶化的晶体
　　
　　盐酸哧哧地冒着青烟。我看到
　　面带微笑的美人鱼
　　沿着幽蓝的冰川滑行
　　沿着圆润的羊背石滑行
　　沿着时光的隧道滑行
　　
　　铁轨擦出刺眼的火光
　　“大卫，天亮之前
　　我一定要找到你！”
　　你的嘴唇青紫
　　在雪白的试纸上
　　眼角的鱼尾纹抚平了
　　
　　8．
　　不敢开车灯
　　上山不开，下山也不开
　　四周是一团肿胀的乳白
　　悄悄围拢上来。我打捞起一根肋骨
　　又打捞起一根肋骨，你的
　　
　　紧紧抱着，小手腕，泥瓦罐
　　小叶片压弯长叶柄，压疼你
　　的一小片，两小片，肿胀的乳白
　　五里之外，城市在海底
　　
　　静静地安睡，静静地进入长久的冬眠
　　放出去的鸥鸟还没飞回来
　　这个世界，只剩一个人
　　想着另一个
　　
　　此时，天堂绽开一朵洁白的玫瑰
　　粉刺嫩嫩，白纱布包裹着柔软的臂
　　弯下来，快抱！宝贝，抱走我
　　
　　我很有耐心
　　点完了最后一炉香
　　车灯突然灭了。断崖
　　不光是大地的尽头，也是汪洋的尽头
　　黑夜的尽头，是等待
　　
　　9．
　　美丽是从两只蝴蝶开始的
　　鲜花追逐甜果
　　我追逐你，你追逐孩子们
　　我说这些丑陋的家伙
　　我很讨厌，这些会乱飞的小东西
　　
　　寄生在我的体内
　　我很讨厌自己的身体
　　小粉花，红苹果，青芽虫
　　我很讨厌肉里的倒刺
　　
　　一到春天就痒痒起来
　　就想到飞
　　随心所欲地飞
　　到绝壁。我很讨厌自己的名字
　　被人一次次喊着
　　
　　“大卫，天亮之前
　　我一定要找到你！”
　　眼泪像断线的珍珠
　　使劲，使劲，使劲
　　一颗一颗，被我捏碎
　　的流星。在今夜点亮
　　
　　10．
　　把下一秒钟
　　给我
　　你漆黑的体腔和磁，你炙热而盲目的铁
　　你长长睫毛尖的一滴水晶般的晨光
　　你野马的嘶鸣
　　
　　如若不能
　　就把我领走吧。我是黄河里
　　月光漂洗的一截肋骨的独白
　　
　　下一秒
　　我将呼啸着冲向你
　　蜘蛛的毒牙
　　你颤抖着的箭镞
　　
　　将在下一秒钟
　　穿透我
　　一尾尾的小银鱼纷纷坠落
　　庞大的碎，在射手的掌心
　　
　　红血球被带到天上
　　旋转的马灯缀满星河
　　
　　11．
　　高山，小手腕轻轻，野草青青
　　一座翻过一座的波浪
　　没有尽头，没有三尺之外，回荡
　　
　　的笑声。还记得那个小石崖
　　小石洞。应有尽有，比如石床、石碗
　　比如胸前挂苹果，头上扎红绳的小妖精
　　
　　小白齿，甜甜的印上另一块石头
　　群山狂欢的舞蹈
　　和蓝调，在冰棱的指尖
　　旋转着一望无际的寂寞
　　
　　大海里晃动的小水妖
　　“这就是曾经的花果园。我做山大王
　　你唱小草，小草。。。小枕头抱抱！”
　　点点磷火的小媚骨。那样的
　　柔软和冰凉。我们拍手轻轻
　　野草青青掩没
　　
　　12．
　　你，是清泉之后的浊流
　　是洪荒之前的江河
　　是气吞百川的大海
　　是一寸寸野蛮的火和冰
　　
　　爬上我的肌肤
　　我，就是你爱的雕塑
　　是众山之巅的最高一座冰山
　　是标本，是沉睡千年的伟男儿
　　
　　冰川退去，海水退去，哗的一瞬
　　湿淋淋地裸露着的一切
　　变得真实起来
　　石子，小草，树，蜜蜂
　　鱼，蝴蝶，绝壁 ，大海，冰河
　　全站起身子，齐声高唱
　　
　　天亮之前，你一定要站起来
　　在海天的尽头，晨光里，山坡上
　　等候着，并猿臂长啸
　　“Mount Tolmie，我爱你！”
　　
　　2006年6月8、9日初稿，13、16、17日修改

　　**和平岛**[加拿大卑斯省]
　　
　　是美丽新嫁娘的眉睫
　　把眉心的那点金子陪嫁给你
　　把骨髓抽出来
　　把小手腕脱下
　　全部陪嫁给你
　　
　　五月，现在我是你的麦花
　　柔软的真身
　　
　　风轻轻摇晃着光
　　一节节开花
　　你能听到小手腕脱落的声音那么清脆
　　你能听到骨髓抽芽的声音那么甜蜜
　　
　　你能看到我腹下的那颗小红胎痣
　　一点点滚圆的露水
　　一粒粒暴涨的金子
　　
　　摘给你，五月，小蜜蜂一样飞起来的
　　麦花，我是你美丽的新嫁娘

【赏析】 五月是中国中原大地麦子扬花的季节。那一片又一片，一浪又一浪的麦花向世人表明什么呢？表明汗水，表明劳作，表明奉献。无论如何，诗意的指向也是对一代又一代农民的歌颂。

歌颂劳动人民的新诗，老一代诗人那里不少见，但都是传统手法写出来的，给人的感觉粗糙而直白，几近口号，缺乏美感。诗人的这一首却别取蹊径，意象新颖而美丽，语言细腻而真切，韵味深情而飘逸。将对人民深挚的爱与同情，诗化为新颖而美丽的意象来说话，让象征劳动人民的奉献精神的麦花“我”来说话，并拟为“新嫁娘”这样的一相情愿的身份对五月说话。“五月”被拟为第二人称“你”，越发显得劳动人民对社会对历史对他人的真挚博大情怀。

---山城子

　　你把羽翼指向苍天
　　去捕捉太阳
　　
　　那些鲜红的, 血一样的罌粟花
　　漫开海面
　　那魔力, 那诱惑
　　那不可遏制的兴奋
　　那兴奋之极的痴狂把深深的蓝
　　笼罩着令人眩晕的金色
　　
　　你朝这炙热俯冲
　　像只扑灯, 不! 像只扑向火海的飞蛾
　　当太阳升起的时候
　　毫不迟疑的
　　迎向它
　　把自己弱小的身躯, 转瞬为
　　一朵浓云

　　Aimed to catch the sun
　　You soar to the sky
　　
　　When blood-red poppies
　　spread over the sea
　　the charm, the fascination
　　the uncontrollable excitement
　　and the wishful thinking
　　are all pressing cover the blue
　　with a dazzling golden color
　　
　　you dive into the furnace
　　like a moth rushing to the light,
　　Oh, No! you rush to the fire sea
　　when the sun rises
　　you meet it without hesitation
　　and your small body becomes instantly a black cloud

　　You're sad because you're sad.
　　It's psychic. It's the age. It's chemical.
　　Go see a shrink or take a pill,
　　or hug your sadness like an eyeless doll
　　you need to sleep.
　　
　　Well, all children are sad
　　but some get over it.
　　Count your blessings. Better than that,
　　buy a hat. Buy a coat or pet.
　　Take up dancing to forget.
　　
　　Forget what?
　　Your sadness, your shadow,
　　whatever it was that was done to you
　　the day of the lawn party
　　when you came inside flushed with the sun,
　　your mouth sulky with sugar,
　　in your new dress with the ribbon
　　and the ice-cream smear,
　　and said to yourself in the bathroom,
　　I am not the favorite child.
　　
　　My darling, when it comes
　　right down to it
　　and the light fails and the fog rolls in
　　and you're trapped in your overturned body
　　under a blanket or burning car,
　　
　　and the red flame is seeping out of you
　　and igniting the tarmac beside you head
　　or else the floor, or else the pillow,
　　none of us is;
　　or else we all are.

　　Gone are the days
　　when you could walk on water.
　　When you could walk.
　　
　　The days are gone.
　　Only one day remains,
　　the one you're in.
　　
　　The memory is no friend.
　　It can only tell you
　　what you no longer have:
　　
　　a left hand you can use,
　　two feet that walk.
　　All the brain's gadgets.
　　
　　Hello, hello.
　　The one hand that still works
　　grips, won't let go.
　　
　　That is not a train.
　　There is no cricket.
　　Let's not panic.
　　
　　Let's talk about axes,
　　which kinds are good,
　　the many names of wood.
　　
　　This is how to build
　　a house, a boat, a tent.
　　No use; the toolbox
　　
　　refuses to reveal its verbs;
　　the rasp, the plane, the awl,
　　revert to sullen metal.
　　
　　Do you recognize anything? I said.
　　Anything familiar?
　　Yes, you said. The bed.
　　
　　Better to watch the stream
　　that flows across the floor
　　and is made of sunlight,
　　
　　the forest made of shadows;
　　better to watch the fireplace
　　which is now a beach.

　　Starspangled cowboy
　　sauntering out of the almost-
　　silly West, on your face
　　a porcelain grin,
　　tugging a papier-mache cactus
　　on wheels behind you with a string,
　　
　　you are innocent as a bathtub
　　full of bullets.
　　
　　Your righteous eyes, your laconic
　　trigger-fingers
　　people the streets with villains:
　　as you move, the air in front of you
　　blossoms with targets
　　
　　and you leave behind you a heroic
　　trail of desolation:
　　beer bottles
　　slaughtered by the side
　　of the road, bird-
　　skulls bleaching in the sunset.
　　
　　I ought to be watching
　　from behind a cliff or a cardboard storefront
　　when the shooting starts, hands clasped
　　in admiration,
　　
　　but I am elsewhere.
　　Then what about me
　　
　　what about the I
　　confronting you on that border
　　you are always trying to cross?
　　
　　I am the horizon
　　you ride towards, the thing you can never lasso
　　
　　I am also what surrounds you:
　　my brain
　　scattered with your
　　tincans, bones, empty shells,
　　the litter of your invasions.
　　
　　I am the space you desecrate
　　as you pass through.

　　All those times I was bored
　　out of my mind. Holding the log
　　while he sawed it. Holding
　　the string while he measured, boards,
　　distances between things, or pounded
　　stakes into the ground for rows and rows
　　of lettuces and beets, which I then (bored)
　　weeded. Or sat in the back
　　of the car, or sat still in boats,
　　sat, sat, while at the prow, stern, wheel
　　he drove, steered, paddled. It
　　wasn't even boredom, it was looking,
　　looking hard and up close at the small
　　details. Myopia. The worn gunwales,
　　the intricate twill of the seat
　　cover. The acid crumbs of loam, the granular
　　pink rock, its igneous veins, the sea-fans
　　of dry moss, the blackish and then the graying
　　bristles on the back of his neck.
　　Sometimes he would whistle, sometimes
　　I would. The boring rhythm of doing
　　things over and over, carrying
　　the wood, drying
　　the dishes. Such minutiae. It's what
　　the animals spend most of their time at,
　　ferrying the sand, grain by grain, from their tunnels,
　　shuffling the leaves in their burrows. He pointed
　　such things out, and I would look
　　at the whorled texture of his square finger, earth under
　　the nail. Why do I remember it as sunnier
　　all the time then, although it more often
　　rained, and more birdsong?
　　I could hardly wait to get
　　the hell out of there to
　　anywhere else. Perhaps though
　　boredom is happier. It is for dogs or
　　groundhogs. Now I wouldn't be bored.
　　Now I would know too much.
　　Now I would know.

　　Your lungs fill & spread themselves,
　　wings of pink blood, and your bones
　　empty themselves and become hollow.
　　When you breathe in you’ll lift like a balloon
　　and your heart is light too & huge,
　　beating with pure joy, pure helium.
　　The sun’s white winds blow through you,
　　there’s nothing above you,
　　you see the earth now as an oval jewel,
　　radiant & seablue with love.
　　It’s only in dreams you can do this.
　　Waking, your heart is a shaken fist,
　　a fine dust clogs the air you breathe in;
　　the sun’s a hot copper weight pressing straight
　　down on the think pink rind of your skull.
　　It’s always the moment just before gunshot.
　　You try & try to rise but you cannot.

　　Marriage is not
　　a house or even a tent
　　
　　it is before that, and colder:
　　
　　The edge of the forest, the edge
　　of the desert
　　the unpainted stairs
　　at the back where we squat
　　outside, eating popcorn
　　
　　where painfully and with wonder
　　at having survived even
　　this far
　　
　　we are learning to make fire

　　The world is full of women
　　who'd tell me I should be ashamed of myself
　　if they had the chance. Quit dancing.
　　Get some self-respect
　　and a day job.
　　Right. And minimum wage,
　　and varicose veins, just standing
　　in one place for eight hours
　　behind a glass counter
　　bundled up to the neck, instead of
　　naked as a meat sandwich.
　　Selling gloves, or something.
　　Instead of what I do sell.
　　You have to have talent
　　to peddle a thing so nebulous
　　and without material form.
　　Exploited, they'd say. Yes, any way
　　you cut it, but I've a choice
　　of how, and I'll take the money.
　　
　　I do give value.
　　Like preachers, I sell vision,
　　like perfume ads, desire
　　or its facsimile. Like jokes
　　or war, it's all in the timing.
　　I sell men back their worse suspicions:
　　that everything's for sale,
　　and piecemeal. They gaze at me and see
　　a chain-saw murder just before it happens,
　　when thigh, ass, inkblot, crevice, tit, and nipple
　　are still connected.
　　Such hatred leaps in them,
　　my beery worshippers! That, or a bleary
　　hopeless love. Seeing the rows of heads
　　and upturned eyes, imploring
　　but ready to snap at my ankles,
　　I understand floods and earthquakes, and the urge
　　to step on ants. I keep the beat,
　　and dance for them because
　　they can't. The music smells like foxes,
　　crisp as heated metal
　　searing the nostrils
　　or humid as August, hazy and languorous
　　as a looted city the day after,
　　when all the rape's been done
　　already, and the killing,
　　and the survivors wander around
　　looking for garbage
　　to eat, and there's only a bleak exhaustion.
　　Speaking of which, it's the smiling
　　tires me out the most.
　　This, and the pretence
　　that I can't hear them.
　　And I can't, because I'm after all
　　a foreigner to them.
　　The speech here is all warty gutturals,
　　obvious as a slab of ham,
　　but I come from the province of the gods
　　where meanings are lilting and oblique.
　　I don't let on to everyone,
　　but lean close, and I'll whisper:
　　My mother was raped by a holy swan.
　　You believe that? You can take me out to dinner.
　　That's what we tell all the husbands.
　　There sure are a lot of dangerous birds around.
　　
　　Not that anyone here
　　but you would understand.
　　The rest of them would like to watch me
　　and feel nothing. Reduce me to components
　　as in a clock factory or abattoir.
　　Crush out the mystery.
　　Wall me up alive
　　in my own body.
　　They'd like to see through me,
　　but nothing is more opaque
　　than absolute transparency.
　　Look--my feet don't hit the marble!
　　Like breath or a balloon, I'm rising,
　　I hover six inches in the air
　　in my blazing swan-egg of light.
　　You think I'm not a goddess?
　　Try me.
　　This is a torch song.
　　Touch me and you'll burn.

　　In the secular night you wander around
　　alone in your house. It's two-thirty.
　　Everyone has deserted you,
　　or this is your story;
　　you remember it from being sixteen,
　　when the others were out somewhere, having a good time,
　　or so you suspected,
　　and you had to baby-sit.
　　You took a large scoop of vanilla ice-cream
　　and filled up the glass with grapejuice
　　and ginger ale, and put on Glenn Miller
　　with his big-band sound,
　　and lit a cigarette and blew the smoke up the chimney,
　　and cried for a while because you were not dancing,
　　and then danced, by yourself, your mouth circled with purple.
　　
　　Now, forty years later, things have changed,
　　and it's baby lima beans.
　　It's necessary to reserve a secret vice.
　　This is what comes from forgetting to eat
　　at the stated mealtimes. You simmer them carefully,
　　drain, add cream and pepper,
　　and amble up and down the stairs,
　　scooping them up with your fingers right out of the bowl,
　　talking to yourself out loud.
　　You'd be surprised if you got an answer,
　　but that part will come later.
　　
　　There is so much silence between the words,
　　you say. You say, The sensed absence
　　of God and the sensed presence
　　amount to much the same thing,
　　only in reverse.
　　You say, I have too much white clothing.
　　You start to hum.
　　Several hundred years ago
　　this could have been mysticism
　　or heresy. It isn't now.
　　Outside there are sirens.
　　Someone's been run over.
　　The century grinds on.

　　Love is not a profession
　　genteel or otherwise
　　
　　sex is not dentistry
　　the slick filling of aches and cavities
　　
　　you are not my doctor
　　you are not my cure,
　　
　　nobody has that
　　power, you are merely a fellow/traveller
　　
　　Give up this medical concern,
　　buttoned, attentive,
　　
　　permit yourself anger
　　and permit me mine
　　
　　which needs neither
　　your approval nor your suprise
　　
　　which does not need to be made legal
　　which is not against a disease
　　
　　but agaist you,
　　which does not need to be understood
　　
　　or washed or cauterized,
　　which needs instead
　　
　　to be said and said.
　　Permit me the present tense.

　　More and more frequently the edges
　　of me dissolve and I become
　　a wish to assimilate the world, including
　　you, if possible through the skin
　　like a cool plant's tricks with oxygen
　　and live by a harmless green burning.
　　
　　I would not consume
　　you or ever
　　finish, you would still be there
　　surrounding me, complete
　　as the air.
　　
　　Unfortunately I don't have leaves.
　　Instead I have eyes
　　and teeth and other non-green
　　things which rule out osmosis.
　　
　　So be careful, I mean it,
　　I give you fair warning:
　　
　　This kind of hunger draws
　　everything into its own
　　space; nor can we
　　talk it all over, have a calm
　　rational discussion.
　　
　　There is no reason for this, only
　　a starved dog's logic about bones.

　　In the burned house I am eating breakfast.
　　You understand: there is no house, there is no breakfast,
　　yet here I am.
　　
　　The spoon which was melted scrapes against
　　the bowl which was melted also.
　　No one else is around.
　　
　　Where have they gone to, brother and sister,
　　mother and father? Off along the shore,
　　perhaps. Their clothes are still on the hangers,
　　
　　their dishes piled beside the sink,
　　which is beside the woodstove
　　with its grate and sooty kettle,
　　
　　every detail clear,
　　tin cup and rippled mirror.
　　The day is bright and songless,
　　
　　the lake is blue, the forest watchful.
　　In the east a bank of cloud
　　rises up silently like dark bread.
　　
　　I can see the swirls in the oilcloth,
　　I can see the flaws in the glass,
　　those flares where the sun hits them.
　　
　　I can't see my own arms and legs
　　or know if this is a trap or blessing,
　　finding myself back here, where everything
　　
　　in this house has long been over,
　　kettle and mirror, spoon and bowl,
　　including my own body,
　　
　　including the body I had then,
　　including the body I have now
　　as I sit at this morning table, alone and happy,
　　
　　bare child's feet on the scorched floorboards
　　(I can almost see)
　　in my burning clothes, the thin green shorts
　　
　　and grubby yellow T-shirt
　　holding my cindery, non-existent,
　　radiant flesh. Incandescent.

　　There is nothing to be afraid of,
　　it is only the wind
　　changing to the east, it is only
　　your father the thunder
　　your mother the rain
　　
　　In this country of water
　　with its beige moon damp as a mushroom,
　　its drowned stumps and long birds
　　that swim, where the moss grows
　　on all sides of the trees
　　and your shadow is not your shadow
　　but your reflection,
　　
　　your true parents disappear
　　when the curtain covers your door.
　　We are the others,
　　the ones from under the lake
　　who stand silently beside your bed
　　with our heads of darkness.
　　We have come to cover you
　　with red wool,
　　with our tears and distant whipers.
　　
　　You rock in the rain's arms
　　the chilly ark of your sleep,
　　while we wait, your night
　　father and mother
　　with our cold hands and dead flashlight,
　　knowing we are only
　　the wavering shadows thrown
　　by one candle, in this echo
　　you will hear twenty years later.

　　I'm thinking about you. What else can I say?
　　The palm trees on the reverse
　　are a delusion; so is the pink sand.
　　What we have are the usual
　　fractured coke bottles and the smell
　　of backed-up drains, too sweet,
　　like a mango on the verge
　　of rot, which we have also.
　　The air clear sweat, mosquitoes
　　& their tracks; birds & elusive.
　　
　　Time comes in waves here, a sickness, one
　　day after the other rolling on;
　　I move up, it's called
　　awake, then down into the uneasy
　　nights but never
　　forward. The roosters crow
　　for hours before dawn, and a prodded
　　child howls & howls
　　on the pocked road to school.
　　In the hold with the baggage
　　there are two prisoners,
　　their heads shaved by bayonets, & ten crates
　　of queasy chicks. Each spring
　　there's race of cripples, from the store
　　to the church. This is the sort of junk
　　I carry with me; and a clipping
　　about democracy from the local paper.
　　
　　Outside the window
　　they're building the damn hotel,
　　nail by nail, someone's
　　crumbling dream. A universe that includes you
　　can't be all bad, but
　　does it? At this distance
　　you're a mirage, a glossy image
　　fixed in the posture
　　of the last time I saw you.
　　Turn you over, there's the place
　　for the address. Wish you were
　　here. Love comes
　　in waves like the ocean, a sickness which goes on
　　& on, a hollow cave
　　in the head, filling & pounding, a kicked ear.

　　What should we have taken
　　with us? We never could decide
　　on that; or what to wear,
　　or at what time of
　　year we should make the journey
　　
　　So here we are in thin
　　raincoats and rubber boots
　　
　　On the disastrous ice, the wind rising
　　
　　Nothing in our pockets
　　
　　But a pencil stub, two oranges
　　Four Toronto streetcar tickets
　　
　　and an elastic band holding a bundle
　　of small white filing cards
　　printed with important facts.

　　He was the sort of man
　　who wouldn't hurt a fly.
　　Many flies are now alive
　　while he is not.
　　He was not my patron.
　　He preferred full granaries, I battle.
　　My roar meant slaughter.
　　Yet here we are together
　　in the same museum.
　　That's not what I see, though, the fitful
　　crowds of staring children
　　learning the lesson of multi-
　　cultural obliteration, sic transit
　　and so on.
　　
　　I see the temple where I was born
　　or built, where I held power.
　　I see the desert beyond,
　　where the hot conical tombs, that look
　　from a distance, frankly, like dunces' hats,
　　hide my jokes: the dried-out flesh
　　and bones, the wooden boats
　　in which the dead sail endlessly
　　in no direction.
　　
　　What did you expect from gods
　　with animal heads?
　　Though come to think of it
　　the ones made later, who were fully human
　　were not such good news either.
　　Favour me and give me riches,
　　destroy my enemies.
　　That seems to be the gist.
　　Oh yes: And save me from death.
　　In return we're given blood
　　and bread, flowers and prayer,
　　and lip service.
　　
　　Maybe there's something in all of this
　　I missed. But if it's selfless
　　love you're looking for,
　　you've got the wrong goddess.
　　
　　I just sit where I'm put, composed
　　of stone and wishful thinking:
　　that the deity who kills for pleasure
　　will also heal,
　　that in the midst of your nightmare,
　　the final one, a kind lion
　　will come with bandages in her mouth
　　and the soft body of a woman,
　　and lick you clean of fever,
　　and pick your soul up gently by the nape of the neck
　　and caress you into darkness and paradise.

　　This is the one song everyone
　　would like to learn: the song
　　that is irresistible:
　　
　　the song that forces men
　　to leap overboard in squadrons
　　even though they see beached skulls
　　
　　the song nobody knows
　　because anyone who had heard it
　　is dead, and the others can’t remember.
　　Shall I tell you the secret
　　and if I do, will you get me
　　out of this bird suit?
　　I don’t enjoy it here
　　squatting on this island
　　looking picturesque and mythical
　　with these two feathery maniacs,
　　I don’t enjoy singing
　　this trio, fatal and valuable.
　　
　　I will tell the secret to you,
　　to you, only to you.
　　Come closer. This song
　　
　　is a cry for help: Help me!
　　Only you, only you can,
　　you are unique
　　
　　at last. Alas
　　it is a boring song
　　but it works every time.

　　My daughter plays on the floor
　　with plastic letters,
　　red, blue & hard yellow,
　　learning how to spell,
　　spelling,
　　how to make spells.
　　
　　I wonder how many women
　　denied themselves daughters,
　　closed themselves in rooms,
　　drew the curtains
　　so they could mainline words.
　　
　　A child is not a poem,
　　a poem is not a child.
　　there is no either/or.
　　However.
　　
　　I return to the story
　　of the woman caught in the war
　　& in labour, her thighs tied
　　together by the enemy
　　so she could not give birth.
　　
　　Ancestress: the burning witch,
　　her mouth covered by leather
　　to strangle words.
　　
　　A word after a word
　　after a word is power.
　　
　　At the point where language falls away
　　from the hot bones, at the point
　　where the rock breaks open and darkness
　　flows out of it like blood, at
　　the melting point of granite
　　when the bones know
　　they are hollow & the word
　　splits & doubles & speaks
　　the truth & the body
　　itself becomes a mouth.
　　
　　This is a metaphor.
　　
　　How do you learn to spell?
　　Blood, sky & the sun,
　　your own name first,
　　your first naming, your first name,
　　your first word.

　　Cruising these residential Sunday
　　streets in dry August sunlight:
　　what offends us is
　　the sanities:
　　the houses in pedantic rows, the planted
　　sanitary trees, assert
　　levelness of surface like a rebuke
　　to the dent in our car door.
　　No shouting here, or
　　shatter of glass; nothing more abrupt
　　than the rational whine of a power mower
　　cutting a straight swath in the discouraged grass.
　　
　　But though the driveways neatly
　　sidestep hysteria
　　by being even, the roofs all display
　　the same slant of avoidance to the hot sky,
　　certain things:
　　the smell of spilled oil a faint
　　sickness lingering in the garages,
　　a splash of paint on brick surprising as a bruise,
　　a plastic hose poised in a vicious
　　coil; even the too-fixed stare of the wide windows
　　
　　give momentary access to
　　the landscape behind or under
　　the future cracks in the plaster
　　
　　when the houses, capsized, will slide
　　obliquely into the clay seas, gradual as glaciers
　　that right now nobody notices.
　　
　　That is where the City Planners
　　with the insane faces of political conspirators
　　are scattered over unsurveyed
　　territories, concealed from each other,
　　each in his own private blizzard;
　　
　　guessing directions, they sketch
　　transitory lines rigid as wooden borders
　　on a wall in the white vanishing air
　　
　　tracing the panic of suburb
　　order in a bland madness of snows

　　This is the lair of the landlady
　　
　　She is
　　a raw voice
　　loose in the rooms beneath me.
　　
　　the continuous henyard
　　squabble going on below
　　thought in this house like
　　the bicker of blood through the head.
　　
　　She is everywhere, intrusive as the smells
　　that bulge in under my doorsill;
　　she presides over my
　　meagre eating, generates
　　the light for eyestrain.
　　
　　From her I rent my time:
　　she slams
　　my days like doors.
　　Nothing is mine.
　　
　　and when I dream images
　　of daring escapes through the snow
　　I find myself walking
　　always over a vast face
　　which is the land-
　　lady's, and wake up shouting.
　　
　　She is a bulk, a knot
　　swollen in a space. Though I have tried
　　to find some way around
　　her, my senses
　　are cluttered by perception
　　and can't see through her.
　　
　　She stands there, a raucous fact
　　blocking my way:
　　immutable, a slab
　　of what is real.
　　
　　solid as bacon.