I have dreams of the wilderness. I do.
My arms sprout branches, twigs
emerge from these: my body begins
to embody the rich eternity of the tree.
I become something
void of the hoarse call of steel
bombards me every day
that these clamps are good
for me, my health; that this is worth it, this
sparkling vacuum: I am starving for air.
Believe me, I have tried
to buy into the trade. But,
you see, I have dreams—
I really do—of something becoming
me like the wilderness, her singsong
voice like a resistless stream: utterance
unshaken, wake of a faithful thing—I wait
to become my dreams like this.
Cafe Deux Soleils, East Vancouver