It’s raining today.

I haven’t spoken

to you

since. And, well,

how the cars go by

the thousands

in every direction,

meeting for moments

and then

away from me.

There is a color

to us

and when I see it,

I can feel that thick, red stump

in the deep of my chest

sprout horns and

call your name, mouthing stanzas

provincially, a minstrel of the wrong words

he sheds them like far away burdens, sheds them

by the hundreds and, well,

how I love you by the thousands.


West Vancouver