I
The Answers

I ask the night,
but it has no answer,
except for this—
headlights and taillights remember, forget
passing through the dark;
snow falls in livid slants under streetlamp light.
I ask the day,
but it has no answer,
except for this—
no children play,
and adults are afraid.

I ask the crow,
but it has no answer,
except for this—
fly to night roost at the setting sun;
fly from night roost at its rising;
be black ink on a paper grey sky.
I ask the seagull,
but it has no answer,
except for this—
let the winter wind carry you sideways,
far, far from the sea.

I ask the dusk;
it cries, Despair.
I ask the dawn;
it answers, Hope.

I fold the shirts you have no need of now,
buttoning the buttons,
soothing down the arms and back.

II
Ways of Being Lonely

Dawn is always hours away.
And it’s still winter, always winter.

The cold insinuates itself through a crack,
cooling coffee in a forgotten cup.

Water chokes through gurgling pipes.
The furnace ohms an alto A.
The fridge drones on, then off, then on.

A cut lemon blues with mold,
oranges transmute into morbidness,
and casseroles know endlessness.

The CBC runs earnest docs,
rightfully exiled to 3 a.m.

The coffee maker bleeps off.

Dawn is always hours away.
And it’s still winter, always winter.

I tiptoe through the empty flat,
forgetting that I can’t wake you.

III
White Fog

White fog shrouds everything
ten floors below as rain streams through
the open screened window. Obscures
the greening that you’ll never see.
Settles like death over life, over time,
over memory. Fades all to silence.