WALKING INTO AUGUST IN EAST-END TORONTO 2020 Is it how spruce don’t think, just do—arrange their boughs for things withwings to dip andglide on through? Or how the yellowcrane looms—strange arabesque-sur-bleu, distraction-dance, wide arcs boom-swung and slow—dwarfing all thatgrows nearby? Stow yourthrone in a box on high look down waydown to read what’s spelled below […]
j tate barlow | RESCURE
RESCUE Hope is the thing with feathers— That perches in the soul— ………. —Emily Dickinson A spell of fresh hells has you composing nothing. Muse flown, focus flailed and you—reluctant to rip the bandaid off—attending to broken news, concocted truth, cannot look away til now, to notice how molten light out there muffles particulars, bevels […]
j tate barlow | WALKING INTO AUGUST IN EAST-END TORONTO 2020, 1st Place Winner of the 2020 Vallum Award for Poetry
WALKING INTO AUGUST IN EAST-END TORONTO 2020 Is it how spruce don’t think, just do—arrange their boughs for things withwings to dip andglide on through? Or how the yellowcrane looms—strange arabesque-sur-bleu, distraction-dance, wide arcs boom-swung and slow—dwarfing all thatgrows nearby? Stow yourthrone in a box on high look down waydown to read what’s spelled below […]