The thoughts burned out since Saturday
and I’m unlikely to remember
anyone’s name, let alone the way
through city parks unguarded,
shorn and populous.
So I tap the mark and open
a room without horizons:
where people are the limits,
and all the gaps joined up about the face
as if infinity meant a fondness
that evaporates even as you breathe.
This is where we meet
Our guests racing through the hurricane depot,
shelves stocked then pilfered
and restocked again. The work
of the same invisible hand
that plants the public gardens every spring
and kills the vagrants in their sleep.
Alex Bucik lives and writes in Toronto. He has previously been published in Prolit and has two self-published chapbooks, The daily flowers pass and News Poems.