8. I wake to the familiar plinking of my father on the black grand piano. The sound breezes through the floor from the room below. There’s a bright dullness Continue reading “8.”


Against Seven Oaks


1. The brakes of a bus. The furnace waking. Any soft sounds
were your words — the way you whispered over the phone. A city becoming mine and part of me.

The chime of the clock and the direction of your eyes. A rooster crowing while The Clash was calling.

In all these connections, we were representative of nothing.

It was all quite impossible and an early form of madness. But you called it something else, what you thought you saw through the pews and beyond the hesitation to push past knees into the airplane aisle.

Continue reading “Against Seven Oaks”

Four Yellowing Ring Fingers


Illustrations by Neil Peter Dyck

The Last Scarecrow

The last scarecrow left Chilliwack in 1980. I was four years old, only hearing about him later. He walked with his “heels in the lead.” It was said he claimed it easier with his Continue reading “Four Yellowing Ring Fingers”