for Roy Kiyooka

And the pear, the adjectival pair, ripe fruit and shrivel, in fact
 presides the window's sill.         Ah, still.


*




To, set back right, upright   the mattress slept upon assert its lean against	the wall at Roy's. Pack up and leaving. To put mattress back as found, and to fold sheets, pillowcases, blankets, a passage piled,  pile	  a paragraph's period to this point is, the resting on the floor, infinitive to comma, soma stay.

Coat hangers, bared in their sway, the closet door's accordion-folding,

                                                                      *
 




fold back. Back.

The curtains pulled wide to the back gardens    Keefer Street,     Chinatown. The bamboo trees lean their poles and leafy shades over this out front garden path, Keefer Street, Chinatown, Chinatown. She always enters, a paper, folded in your pocket. Mother who'd given addresses where she'd lived as a B.C. girl, scribbled onto scrap paper - Powell Street across from Powell Ground (now it's called Oppenheimer Park, you'll later report this fact to her)  -  :  two addresses rebuilt place the so gone is (early sun, and change to day's over cast), mug o' coffee in these hands, only this Powell Street autumn morning outside, the still Vancouver, Little Tokyo once morning, only her new-plumbered heart which saved her life what angina becomes as pain and clog in Toronto, tho these buildings on Powell Street utter again and again, a residence and new plumbing in the home. (Own mug in the mirror in, same face same mirror in infinite definitive.) Oh Lordie, o, Lordly.

That Roy's place, home, that Roy who come from birth in Moose Jaw, Sask.   to Calgary
 
                                to here where here
                                it's cup after
                                  cup
                                of coffee
                                poured from the yellow
                                enamel pot


 
                               slender spout it says
                               'pour' ya catch da drips
                     *         at simmer-coil
                                  the autumnal yellow
                               electric stove                                        *             

as he says 'cuppa coffee' the hard laughing, hard laughing   at the thick lovely wood table his beard shaking up and down that grace'd breath, wrapped head bandana-life, wrapture, spelling the doubleness of 'u', so meester, this is the body-electric. 

                     *

This place, the key. The



 
key to turn open open the organ-valves wide where it's custom to remove your shoes, leave the streetworld's music behind, the path of leaf-strewn dissonant wind and reed to green tred anew with old feet always new ground made askance dance the grasp to floor.

Tributaries of eye to eye and beard, Roy's, lean old sinewy muscles. Or then, chart the construction and reconstruction walls, Mother's, timorous flowing into the unmapped skids of a loved heart's chamber. What directions to take in a claim of love undefinable definitive's infinite. Your're back where your are, son.