Hungry for Gravity
The subway platform at Keele station opens wide
to take in mouth- fulls of snow and night air.
If you stand on the periphery, looking out into the dusk
you can still hear church bells on un-holy days
and feel the lull of evening settling around you like ghosts
at the end of a cureless journey.
You are impossibly in love with this city
despite its buried creeks and oil tanks
you pirouette in its doorways, keep vigil over chimneys and seasons.
And while the snow moves in from the north like a slow cancer
you remain as loyal as breath
democratic, while the tempest, sharp as fishbone, howls across waters
altering and dismantling the patina of spring and fire.
You stand under the birdless skeletons of cherry birch
craning toward the marmoreal sky
wishing to be nowhere else but in this state of atonement
- a kind of trust, in the algorithm of sidewalks and horizon.
Soon you realize all days are un-holy and Sunday’s silence grips you
like a malignancy.
The arithmetic of your step takes you to the redolence of regret
and into a wider destiny where the neighbourhoods bark in reverse.
But somehow, it all adds up and the dimming light breeds layers of kindness,
under which the seams of longitude split wide open.
An un-tethered vertical beauty prowls the city like loose dogs
under the ministry of moon while tongues lie sleeping.
Clouds, hungry for gravity, press into you and you run,
in the only direction you know, on stupid legs,
faithful only to themselves.
"I am a good dog, running half-way home..."
The fantastic Amelia Curran