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Down to a tea

To my exes and estranged, yet to budge from a grudge – to those who are absent to those who resent, to those who are distant with distaste: I would like to invite you to tea forty years from now when we are old, wrinkled and wringed out by the world by those things that

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“it was the land”

https://youtu.be/DAP59RPZoMg *Shorter version: https://youtu.be/iZ1Q9J4EBIw *Written in honour of the many children who never returned home from residential schools in Canada. “it was the land” by pj johnson Poet Laureate of the Yukon. it was the land no one knew the evil men could do behind closed doors no one spoke of it no one said

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Crossing Acheron

though he had known every quantity of life: its short repose, its indefinite strike; though he had knowledge of the indifferent span of evening and daylight and the repetitious metaphysic of sound and fury; though life had been every superstitious quality of sensate being, he, with indifference, collected the manifold days into folded gestures and

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Snowshoeing—March

Snowshoeing—March For M and K Frozen branches of barren birch cast blue-grey shadows on the Long Trail, blanketed white. Trees encased in ice and snow, shimmer against cobalt. Cheeks red, ruddy. Our noses, eyes, sting and drip; tiny hairs now miniature icicles. Still, our bodies warm as we climb. We peel layers, swiftly stuff them

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Pump

Pump It was an anonymous part of the present. It bore imprints of percolating gears enmeshed into a tentative wheel that turned back the tap of hours streaming, streaming, at the end of a handle – a tear-like dream, a sadness in uproar.

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