bystander
raze
sometimes
i
stand
in
a
room
that
holds
a
bunch
of
books
and
tapes
and
pirouetting
pieces
of
a
past
life
,
and
i
watch
people
walk
across
the
shabby
avenue
that
holds
my
home
and
wonder
if
they
can
feel
my
eyes
on
them
.
the
large
man
with
his
tiny
black
dogs
.
ten
quick
steps
between
the
two
for
every
one
of
his
.
the
widower's
daughter
guarding
her
garden
with
a
reinforced
rubber
hose
.
the
retiree
wearing
shorts
and
a
shirt
that's
bluer
than
the
blanket
above
his
head
.
weaving
a
little
.
like
he's
drunk
or
swaying
to
a
song
only
he
can
hear
.
the
fleet
of
five
cyclists.
a
woman
gesticulating
to
drive
the
story
she's
spinning
.
acting
out
the
rigging
of
a
fishing
rod
or
the
laboured loading
of
a
long
-barreled firearm.
her
ponytail
stabbed
by
the
spike
of
a
miniature
canadian
flag
.
parents
sharing
the
hands
of
their
child
.
the
father
swinging
a
plastic
shopping
bag
in
such
a
way
that
for
a
moment
it
gives
the
girl
a
prosthetic leg
and
my
heart
catches
in
my
throat
.
watching
with
me
once
was
a
robin
at
rest
on
the
rim
of
this
house
.
a
world
of
unhatched
words
alive
inside
her
skull
.
she
stood
and
saw
what
there
was
to
see
.
then
she
spread
her
wings
and
became
another
photograph
to
file
away
.
241001
what's it to you?
who
go
blather
from
