written By
The geese in the Hudson Bay move
the same as the geese at home.
The discarded white cups floating beside them
manufacture the same silences.
Lapping water, clanging flagpole, the insistence
of train after train. In a city like this one,
I can be invisible, mute. Slack. Mis-matched.
Oily braid splintering down my neck.
It’s just practice, mind you. Like bees
and fallen trees, I am here
and not here even when
no one takes note.
