You wonder what it is.
It lacks geography,
has the substance of dream,
and is resistant to measures
of length and width, and those
other dimensional
rules and blunting braces.
It is both within and without
and as if a tea drop
on the finest of china cups,
it rests at the rim of a thought
unformed, half-formed, forming.
Galleon with no luff in its sail,
it navigates the sky and you
are aloft. You arrive.
You look around and find
the landscape is Canadian.
But which of them? And whose?
May 27, 2016