For us it’s fine the forests are empty
And the seas are merely picturesque residue.
We have been taught appearance is everything
And cannot resign our mirrors now.
The train is five minutes away from Oshawa
And on the first Metro of the morning
A man called Raymond ate a sandwich, crumbs
Constellating his overalls.
We are thanked for depositing our garbage
In the bin but have no idea where it goes
And enjoy our beautiful ignorance.
Why not write a Frank O’Hara poem?
Sometimes life is just a series of events
With filaments less than more connecting.
Like now when I am served my soup
In a random Scottish pub and ask for only
A small amount of pepper while it starts
To snow thin as litter and a woman pronounces
Certain as Li Po: “It’s the intelligent people
That are truly dangerous when they’re stupid.”