The northern gate, opening into,
and out,
into moving away
the day you drive through,
the wrong day: shining blades, territorial
leaves, apples unready, jade walnuts on trees.
No one walks on the road. No one drives.
The hour is wrong, or the road.
Just ragged clouds blowing all over the sky
and a hawk canting. Kanesatake.
So much green you begin to crave
crimson silk, unravelling, want to be
somewhere else. Shame, your shame is being in the wrong place.
No one waits for you at the corner.
Rain, one by one, on the windscreen.
At the gas station, one man, head down
as he fills his tank.
No one gazes from windows,
no windows seen. Houses
guard the far ends of driveways.
Wind wails a warning. Shame is
the failure to belong sufficiently to what is beloved.
Northern gate, opening into,
and out.