I dream that my legs
are covered in hair, dark
and coarse as a bear’s.

No mail in a week and I am certain I don’t exist.
Loneliness, once the enemy,
has since become acceptance.

I remember those districts lashed with rain
through three Vancouver seasons: our modest houses
or three-storey walk-ups stuccoed
or wooden-sided, a drenched tricycle
toppled over on the small wet lawn,

Like billions of dark butterflies
Beating their wings
Against nightmares

We listened to talk shows
and requiems,
chatted about acid rain,
flirted a little.