the smell of garbage is the air I breathe
a man’s shadow haunts the place I call home
I want rest without the torment of dreams
an ocean calm away from sand and foam
I want
to go

go where fireflies dance like children

where the sun sets without number
and my feet have no concept of time

where the water is yellow with gold kisses
and crocs threaten geese with menacing eyes . . .
Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 4. Purchase the book to read the full piece.