London St., Peterborough ON (1999)

I am writing on paper
from the bearded lady
she has stamped it
with a leaf and some velvet
making my hands
want weightlessness.

This porch and this blue sky
with autumn in its creases
erodes Saussure and his comfortable
delegation of arbitrarity
and things like the trees
with their flustered
state of coral death
become fine tuned.

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