Michael Canavan

I would wake where my brief tribe gathers,
a stranger eddying from every mirror.
So lost a stranger, asking directions of pinwheel oleander.
I would wake next to sleep-singers, gutter divas,
men who confused

hearses and limousines. The sea would croak
there, everyone would have several birthdays.
They would ask me if I’m Gustave, if
I’m John. I would ask them if they’re Dahlia,
if they’re Marie.

There would be the love of a certain arrangement
of oranges, the love of the elasticity of trains.
I would wave the befogged goodbye of a valise
in a Russian novel. It seemed that the city
hastened away

while we were hysterically still. One palsied hand
traced constellations, lifting beasts carefully
to the stars. I would take my large medicine
while outside the bicep of Jove disguised as a cloud
showed me my strength.

Posted 02/01/12

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