we are nearing

the sea now; the cawing

of old spirits by the shore is

weaving itself into the 

vancouverean gales, sweeping the town

as it does free souls. see the twinkle

at the end of the horizon;

that is a small rupture in the

Cosmos, a small tear in the

smooth silk fabric of british

columbia, the passing ships

ephemeral stars in the drainage

of north american

lore, soon to be gone and

never again to be found

in an autumn sea-sky, a grain of salt among many

on a tumultuous tablecloth.

but there is an orbit, and it is

found in the way seagulls encircle

old lit lampposts at gastown

nightly, how the men on totem poles

are always embracing their

children, the arms an endless

circle.