Jeremy Clarke

I

I know by the new and sudden silence that the dawn is coming.
The wind withdraws and the rain rewinds
and I stand in the street and listen.
Nothing. A beautiful nothing
carrying the long low note – a half hum, half mile away stadium roar,
a rumour of noise, a residue of past activity that remains
like a stain on the silence of the city.

And I am an ear
tuned to the chatter of litter, to the laughter of a leaf in flight
and the soundless shouts of flashing lights
alarming the air.
I’m the eye of the calm,
a witness to the night dissolving into day, and the light
and the start of the storm.

II

Though I move through a memorized scene, every step
is into a moment I’ve not been in before.
Things I pass know only purpose. Permanently stuck
at the moment of their making.
Bench seat, street light, sign post, waste bin. These old buildings
lining the wall, unaware
of the weather, or each other, or the water’s elaborate arrivals,
concussed departures.
A river’s strange sideways decisions.

The long slow of my straight and narrow.
My step by step – encounter, embrace, adore, abandon.
I’m a perfect stranger
passing through the commonplace, amazed.

III

I know the habits of things –
how shadows slide and streetlamps lean
lovingly over their light.
Amusing themselves in the dead hours reading
the barcodes of zebra crossings
or their fortunes in the broken lines of paving stones.

I know the sound of snow
and how the rain arrives – each drop
holding its one note, without spilling,
before setting it down.
I know how the lit city wounds the dark
and that the wind can never be consoled.

I believe in things like a broken heart.

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Jeremy Clarke has two books forthcoming from Rufus Books (Toronto. rufusbookspublishing.ca). He has a website, jeremyclarke.com.