On Cycle

Right on time each semester

disaster strikes, severing the head

of a snaking train of paper-bound days—

The first semester, Harvey came,

shut us up in cloud-lit dorms while

the wind scrubbed the campus in waves—

Then, the time went on, undisturbed,

it made campus quiet and clean—

January rounded the corner, slithering around

the year-post – Ice came, and we

stayed in, school closed, we stayed away—

Then, the time went on, uninterrupted,

it made campus shine and gleam—

The third semester, fire came,

before we were ready, routing us out

of the places other storms made us stay—

The time came on too quickly, treading

over pain too swiftly, so no one

knows what it means—

Right on time each semester, usually,

disaster strikes, and everyone finds

a place to lie in safety—

But shriveling fire preempts the norm

and withers paper-days, wraps the path

of our return and leaves no place to lay.



Iconic, September 30th

Everything’s back to cool-dry,

sun-baked hot, like desert pavement

under the unblinking sun.

A tinge of smoke is still in the air,

that fire-smell, the mold

of wet wood lighting in the nose.

The roof is gone, scalped by flames,

wearing a billowing sky on its pate,

and the ceiling fan hangs from one rafter,

drooping like a wilted flower

browned and dried in the sun,

cut and forgotten.



The ghosts of belongings

hover in abandoned closets,

savouring the reluctance mourners

keep storing.

It looks like someone chopped a

hole into the side of a keepsake box

and abandoned the ruined contents

spilled like spent matches.

A barbecue pit stands on the lawn,

unused, kind of mocking.

All the doors hang open, resting

easy and spent on their hinges,

like ruins just waiting for vines

and spirit-guardians.

From the parking lot

I can see Jackson’s unlit victory star,

and birds spin in and out between

the points and me and the walls of roofless rooms.

It looks like there’s unsent mail

untouched in the tins.

A half-made bed, soggy with

smoke-water, peeks out a window

beside a crystal-clear fire safety poster.

Eight gaping windows still admit

no light, absorbing in chalky soot

any stray rays wandering in.

The leasing office leers, humbled,

next-door, and

the wind plays perfumer with what

it finds.