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.

Recommended

Church and Gerrard

There is a hum. Surrounding me Toronto respires. It gapes. Gap toothed to the world. I imagine a yawning crater sucking anything that isn’t nailed down into itself. Feeding. Feeding off the teaming life scurrying at its feet . . .

Little Magic Child

There’s beauty in the world, no need to look too hard Even in a game of greed, she smiles at the queen on a card And all the parents watching, smile at the thought That the grass seems to be better than the presents the child got They laugh at how little it takes to make her smile Because they haven’t had the magic, not for awhile It disappeared when all children’s tales were proved false And shines for a second with the rapid beating of pulse When love sinks in, the magic flickers in their hearts But it’s nothing like the flame inside a child, a real work of art . . .