Athirst, raise the whirlpool of landlord’s rooves
We sleep beneath, moments full of nothing,
After the curbs have been drained.
The minutes pilfer, nibble, and crumble,
There are 13 months in his year, give him
Gratis a glide off the smaller straining
Spirit he applauds, a side of yourself to carry
in dry words from the woods, with frightful hands,
Only I didn’t think I’d lose my thumb,
Which costs him nothing, flutters of flesh
Can rest in place, the hands of hours heaving.
At the sound of the tone, you’re suddenly
Uncalled for. The briefly constant boom and
Bust, it flakes off, not to dust, but trash.
all that is
is scheme’s milk,
a gas, a glass,
this gift unveils itself
a violent interruption
away from awareness
where I awhile
here and now
give my all for then
what will have been
a has been,
always apart, only some of us are
Wim is a dual citizen from Seattle living in Victoria, BC. You may have met him in a moss-filled basement suite in Vancouver, a dust storm in northern Alberta, or perched atop a spinning curling rock in sweaty, sweaty Gatineau. He’s had poems in Pages Penned in Pandemic, Peaches and Bats, and Slightly West. For private opinions made inadvisably public, see him on Twitter.