The sun rounds a fulcrum fixed
far beyond the panes behind my head.
A rubber tree enters the flat latitudes
winter solstice charts on the northern wall.
Warm rhomboids slip across my thighs.
Like an astronomer cat living in the big
box humans imprison her within, I prefer
stretching out where cozy polyhedrons
linger longest before they slide away.
The imagery alone puts this in the set of my Canadian poems, along with Insomnia at Forty Below, Edge, Making Nothing Happen, North Hatley, May Snow, and 53.5º N, 113.5º W, not to mention the translations from Québécois writers for the journal Ellipse, among them Lozeau’s Azure, and Maple Leaves.