by Gord Sellar
nights waiting
to feel this life
slip from me,
sliding off, out
skinless
making its own
way.
—imagining it strut
along narrow streets
with walking
stick, & slick under tweed—
lain on my
husk-side, trying
not to think: i
need rather
to be the thing
itself—
hidden tremor
pulls at all
the flesh beneath my
ribs,
shakes under
morning;
it keeps a secret.
i know it does.
–Saskatoon, 1998