Streak

I’m on an unbroken streak of never speaking,

to Stuart Ross though the spaces we share

are shrinking. The internet fits in my fist

but is larger than geography. We started

with a country, then city, I veered around him

on sidewalks where he sold his poetry. I had

no money then for words but respected his

all-weather commitment. It keeps collapsing,

neighbourhoods, parks, launches at bars.

Now we’re down to houses, rooms.

It’s not that I don’t want to talk to

Stuart Ross. Historically, in the decades

of my silent observation, he’s friendly,

accessible. I’m fine on Facebook, but

it’s complicated. Liking something,

a thumbs up, is the least amount

of social you can do. But acceptable.

We are satisfied with so little. Both

too much and hungry. I forget who

I am sometimes and have to hear a

poem to know. Anyone’s poem in another

voice not mine. I tried this trick with

Paul Vermeersch but he snapped my

streak by introducing himself. If you want

to go unseen never be early and alone.

Never speaking to Stuart Ross is like hoarding

unwatched Philip Seymour Hoffman films

so there’s some future thing to hope for.

It will keep narrowing, grouped in a living

room, crowded kitchen, cold porch, closet.

One day he’ll be on the other side of the

closed curtains that circle the dark bathtub

I live in, the hard enamel crusted with crumbs,

blanketed with books I never had a chance to read.

“Stuart Ross,” I’ll murmur finally. “Stuart Ross.”

“I’ve forgotten the bird. I can’t remember the sky.”