In the late November wind
the sky grows
grey, fades awkwardly.
Toward the lakeshore
the condominiums stay
and shit like unsettled geese.
From 30 stories up
the traffic from the expressway’s
little more than a rumour –
it travels like the sighs
of voyageurs
but comes up occasionally
in dreams
or dinner conversations.
The lift’s more real.
It carries the heart’s truth
under its shoulder
like a bag of supplies
from the convenience store.
The evening tilts into dusk
like a bottle of wine on the counter.
Fort York’s
the feel of earth.
The place as you left it.
You wait. Sit and wait.
* poem, in its entirety, is available in the printed version of the current issue.
Bio:
Michael Hall has lived in St Marys, Ontario, and currently lives in Dunedin, New Zealand. His poems have appeared in journals in Canada, Australia, and New Zealand.