a mouthful of broken teeth

Maple leaves fall,

yellow, crisp,

around nylon tents

blooming under

autumn’s moonlit shadow

in Hamilton Harbour

with only a few

glorious trees

stitched into the flesh

—of once beautiful and rich Native land—

before the executives

with those laughing skulls

—stuffed full of excrement—

dead now trembling in coffins

piled

bricks and steel stacks

for an oh-so lovely

violin vision

of glowing hearts

dimming

now

in the free, falling

far and wide

into  

​

bleak and hard eyes

of another

lonely, cold,

unharvested tenderness

—without daily bread—

sleeping on

winter’s grass

shaped like

ant-teeming crickets

in another world 

waddling, in forgotten doom

wheezing

in a very sick city

with a mouthful

of

broken teeth

where dogs piss

up and down

sidewalks

slowly circulating,

on another night

shrouded

by a total

absence of hope

thinking

it’s too late

nothing can stop

those mindless

fat cranes

from tearing the heart

out

on its own

raising

it

high

for the bone-tired to see

all bundled up

in coats and scarves,

in thick wool stockings

purchased at Walmart

or Giant Tiger

waiting to be

squeezed together

on the unbearable wagon

a one-way government coupon

—in hand—

to take them out of this place

—even just for a little bit—

to journey anywhere.

But here.