Caesura

Two-hundred miles

of spanning Ontario

can’t mend us now,

Stratford standing halfway between 

Windsor and The Falls—

moonlit intermission

of Beaugolais and brie.

We argue like lovers—

in silence,

iambs sliced in two,

motes of blank verse

spill out over burning rivers,

deep gorges 

of misunderstanding.

Midsummer, I grasp your myth, 

clutch your magic,

and you, quietly speak my folly.

We find no middling words 

to bridge this undiscovered country,

no kisses, 

no mumbled apologies... 

I think of you often

and know your aria

never stops praying

for rest.