and they open, shut, open, shut, open -
there you are.
Hands folded around the ceramic,
and your lips curled up in a half-smile
at the sober scents of lavender and old books.
When you've tumbled into the bushes
and emerged, scuffed-shoe and scraped-knee,
he still sees Whyte Ave coffee shops
and rose-coloured walls, toe-tapping.
I wonder how it is that even when
his eyes are closed he sees you,
trying to bury yourself
in layers of wool and smoke,
but never succeeding.
I can hear you in your words,
Northern Alberta ink that rages war against the pages,
a rogue match, blazing.
I see you how he sees you,
a fawn in a meadow of poppies and pollen,
but I can hear your belly rumble with
the hunger of riots and rampage.