Rough

dirt covered hands
black as tar
digging under rock

the stiff drink
the dry cough
a hot water bottle
cigarettes

a bird sounds
five a.m.
sunlight cuts through
broken window blinds

begin again
through pain
end again

____________

You came home carrying a stack of papers, each one blank.

We took an hour and spread them out all over the house; behind cupboards, in shelves, clung to doorknobs, and on the sills of windows.
We put them on the furniture, in the shower, on the coffeepot, and on our favorite books.
I stuck one on the dog, you put one on the bed.
At last, we put one on each other.
Then we set out to write on each piece of paper the word that best describes that spot.

On the windowsill I wrote "sunrise", you wrote "sunset."

On the bookshelf I wrote "knowledge", you wrote "entertainment."

The shower was "clean" for me, and "dirty" for you.

The coffeepot was "energy" for me, "addiction" for you.

On the dog you wrote "mine", I wrote "yours."

On the bed you wrote "mine", I wrote "yours."

On you I wrote "goodbye."
You left mine blank.

As the door closed behind me I wrote "home" on it right underneath your writing - "house."

August

Crouched down beneath
A hummingbird's fluttering wings
Sizzle in heat
A sun torn apart

Its shards are falling down upon us
Cutting clouds in two
Making monsters in shadow
Our parents wouldn't recognize us

Mom, you wouldn't recognize me

Skin covered in a wet film 
Droplets moving from brow to chin
All the oxygen gone
Even blood sweats

We laid on the grass
Conforming to our shapes
When the sun lights us ablaze
You won't recognize me anymore

Dad, you won't recognize me

A Lonely Night in Halifax

The wet sidewalk met my sneakers with a smack,
as the air brushed my skin in a lazy,
drifting sort of fashion;
as if it too were giving up on the day due to rain.

I took my time strolling down Dobbs Street,
questioning whether there is life outside of Halifax.

It sometimes feels as though you are the last man on earth
when the overcast darkens and the city goes silent.
I pondered what I would do if this feeling were fact
as I passed the Montfort building on King Street toward the cemetary.

Tonight would be ideal for a ghost to appear,
or perhaps I am a ghost.