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from "blood, love, and boomerangs"
the way we wrestle angels
the way we rescue lies from
the privacy of a bedroom
the way we ignore the precocious child singing on the subway
ignore the smell around the man with wet trousers
the man who whistles The Girl from Ipanema all the way up Walmer Road
but can't ignore the screams of babies
women whose biological clocks tick so loudly
you can hear them a block away
and the middle-aged man thinks the photo of the
middle-aged woman captioned oops, I forgot to have children is funny
sometimes blood drifts from the body
thickened clots escaping
sliding like wild things
with life of their own
that they don't have
not this time
some things happen by slow degrees
other things don't happen at all
and sometimes I believe in angels
but I can't make myself believe in god
on Bloor Street I gave the last of my change to the girl with dirty hands
reminding me too much of myself before edges
before blood loss
before solemnity
armour
I would love waking up with you
in a room full of sun and books
you could play connect the dots
with the moles on my arms and back
gently trace the beginnings of fine creases at the corners of my eyes
listen to the sound of birds in the morning
even though they are just crows
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