Angles (a poem of mine which previously appeared on The Globe and Mail's "In Other Words" book blog

  September, photographing dead bird

a glassed-in porch

the fall

a steady hand, needed

to take this bird

the light is fading; the light has flown

the stillest, patientest

subject, submits

to many angles,

angles exclaiming

wings, feet, bill, the brown

streaks on a yellowish belly

but later, reemerging

in almost dark, in pale yellow

light, the first shot

was the best: straight down

in heavy shadow

September, my father

expected, sudden, the flight

almost missed, the car stopped

for speeding, and we were ten

minutes late. For what? Empty angles.

Empty eyes. Empty endings.

Little is left, just sharp angles

of nose, elbows. Cover the toes

creeping from covers,

skin unlike skin, nails unlike nails.

I am not interested in angles.

Hit glass, the fall

a long time ago.

To stop the shaking,

quit breathing.