Les Rêves Canadiens

                         INVERSE

                 Lately I go unnoticed,
                 dazed in the brush-fire of hashed cliches,
                 lost in the pyre high axioms
                 and moulding soliloquies as another day
                 ticks the hour on the face of a clock
                 which makes time and plans without me.

                 To stand wary of some unsuspected prank
                 or clog whose perfunctory obstacle
                 streams down Escher puzzles of raindrops.
                 A rubric of Moebius images
                 have yet to take notice
                 that the trees do not stir,
                 or the second hand pauses
                 and this infernal trick of shadows
                 sharpens and draws
                 as we slip the mask on.

 .

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