The Bleed

When, in mute wonder

of it, in the night, in awe,

I dress that goddess

who is my lonesome Soul

crying to join everything

as though it were all


and the same;

and there is a terse magic,

a fine prism in the palm

that showers answers upon these walls

for us to dance,

in waltz for solitude, and on; and one.

And when, in having told


of this intensity

brought on by the songs like

slow and tender flames

who hug the outskirts of a heart

and threaten to consume

what is once, no more: I,

paralyzed by the beauty

that I see—I fail to show you

what I’d just glimpsed in a flare

of rapture, and then back

like the child found naked in woods

and brought back and chained to a desk

and from whom a proof

is demanded—a proof! or tyranny.


West Vancouver

after Bleed Confusion