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Sean Wiebe CANADA One must always pretend something I am Akbar, and the city is beautiful. ~Coelho, 1998, p.167 Sadness comes in different packages like this morning’s crown royal breakfast from a brown paper bag. I feel a few drops begin to affect me, glory quietly and wide-eyed wonder when we can touch our faces together again, know the stain of sweetness. I have learned to see you, with words, keep vigil, clasp your hand without hands, walking this morning between welcome smells of flowers in blossom, arms draped in high altitude, while young giggles catch us in this mountain poem. The unmade bed doesn’t matter, like an eyelash fallen on satin pillows. I slip off your shirt, in this second act of love, over and over cover and reveal your shoulders, an element of grace. I prefer enhancing memory with mystery where yours still shines even after splendour fades over the mountains.
Copyright,
Sean Wiebe. |