It's still amazing, the speeding grace
the kind of hum-drum bleat the Gatineau
gypsy cab clamour has to me,
a river's rhythm unheard but to
an ear attuned past cruder shouts,
past tick-board tin clatter,
to shaded eyes it draws forever in
coattail chasers, dreamers and all.
It makes your half-bent heresy some mocking
wake of itself, blonde lock in blue framing,
scolding the untamed space this bricken tangle
used to be, in all form of torch-light ache.
I float with my fingers, though, ivory
on spring-chord clang against the newness
of skin-touch, against the brutalistfires you conjure in places long hidden.