Globetrotter

toronto is
	amsterdam
		adrift at sea



	it breathes the open atlantic
		where lines and angles blur
				     and bend into mist


	toronto is
	prague
			without her anchoring of


	narrow streets   narrow sky
			   and
	virgin-tight apartment blocks


 it is london long-jumping
	her imperial shadows
			  trafalgar-ing into space . . . 
Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 1. Purchase the book to read the full piece.

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Mo

Mo cannot take Fridays off. As a result he finds himself praying in the eastbound streetcar on his way to work. He assumes the appropriate position—as if holding the Qu’ran in hand—and enters a meditative state of worship, mumbling to himself at points where he usually sings when in the privacy of his own room . . .

Lunch at l’auberge

He arrives in murmuring blue tie puffed like a poised rattler He has brought a ruby flower scent of languorous hours “Have you never been to France?” His face is sluggish but his fingers fly He finds a dear spot behind her ear “Tell me . . .