travel form

love resides some where in the weeds,
some where in the mowed grass
of the interstate,
it forms as a dream behind
the garage in London Ontario
it is the book that has been writing its
self since then
it is my new city, burdened by its Formica
and slate
red brick
and bones, lumping streets-
cobble stone,
the orchards of ghost grow
new
souls daily
the collective moan
blows its low horn
through the rapids, and finds me hat on head
breathing cold wars, and
cereal plants
woven to vapor still expanding in
the spreading mist, the splintered back of
the Niagara rising, to the Eire jet stream
and lowering on to cabbage, corn, and
dark earth grape vine.