Tag Archives: Wim

Blotting out the Itch to Cling

By Wim Owe

What does it mean that I can’t control the urge to write you 
from work to tell you that I woke up with my clothes off 
and it rained all morning. You’re cinched around me 
and I’m melting into a fantasy that you’ll call my work line 
just to moan into my voicemail, and shake the lie out
of a professionalism I hide behind.

 I can’t tie my words

as strings around you from so far off any more than I 
can warm you with my distant body. Next to it you were 
Small and fearless. I don’t attach easily, but fly from here 
in my mind. I don’t need to be back in bed to be lost in 
the memories that you left there, rubbing one foot against 
the other.

You have a clear crystal voice that needs to call

my ass and announce the weather, and how the plants 
and bugs around you will like it, how you feel about it 
and what all the gossip flock needs you to be feeling in 
a moment before it passes out of groupmind. I’m doing alright – 
right? How do you remember me? I’m at work, looking for 
a chance to say something nasty with the taste of sweetbread 
and whiskey in my mouth. Your knee stuck out of the blanket, 
chilly in someplace secret. The tingle turns into a tremble.

We spent a week together and I’ve been sleepwalking ever 
since, carried on by the hands of your words.

Your letter tells me your reading went well –

I can picture the anxious half-nap you woke from when 
you called me to tell me about the sun and the wind. Closing 
your eyes for sensibility’s sake, because soon everyone will 
be watching you, you work through the last-minute worries. 
Reading the round of faces, hoping that their focus is for 
the pleasure of listening to you, then bubbling through 
the night, delirious with immense satisfaction, too ecstatic 
in your own skin for the sleep you know you need, tickled 
by the waking dream.

Can you feel the arc of night

stretching over you, slipping through your body, as your 
pulse beats in your ears? The seeming sounds of ceasing music, 
wearing your coming dream like an armour for investigating 
shipwrecks. The poems vanished in a flash, leaving nothing 
but sounds and markings in the books each of us hides beneath 
our pillows. They are the homes of a million different things 
singing to each other long after we have forgotten each other.


Wim Owe 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.

At the U-turn curve on Billings Bridge

By Wim Owe

I hold my breath as the 

articulated one-eleven bus

turns a full loop just before 
the bank, imagining the finesse

it takes for the driver to guide
The right front corner so that it hovers

Just over the sidewalk, without
Scraping the wheel when its turn

Comes around, knowing by the wedge
In the snow how may drivers

Have made it fit before


Wim Owe 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.

The job that ends

By Wim Owe

Another day,
To press uneaten rice
Into a repurposed
Margarine tub,
Scrub between
The fork tines,
Invasive threads
Between teeth, 
Bleeding From 
Irregularity

What proves my lost 
time wasn’t lost,
And all that is simply 
passed around, 

Unmolded good-morning 
light of an unsentimental

future, watch me 
despise this page 
of a day, sealing

The food from
The night, spoon
Handles pointed
To the moon
From the drying
Rack, I practice 
what couldn’t
Possibly be 
my calling.

My science

Is not of mind,

Does not take

Steps

Toward

Any destination

But screams

Not here.


Wim Owe 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.

Day in, Days End.

By Wim Owe

Subsisting off a constant exhaustion, 
Looking for the shore, yet fluent in its 
Waning away, you find yourself again
Pressed on as the sun rises. Once more

Sore from the force of the oars, what feeds
your wants and boundaries become elastic
In the burning light of a flotsam life,
Sucking away at your silent voices

In the stifling storm. Your own heart beats
For the crowd, pulling away at the sea
Hypnotically stretching around each stroke

As the sweating backs ahead of you shout
For another, until the light settles
Its needles into the foam, your eyes close.


Wim Owe 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.

A Book of Malevolent Devices

By Wim

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,
an engine.

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
ourselves.


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.