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A Day of Nothing in the Multiverse

What comes next doesn’t really matter.
A stripe of light, watered down,
the television a parliament of owls
to wind me up, set the tension

on an internal spring. Considering this:
definitions are softening. What is the world
if not an arctic of sound, a bowl of seeds,
a room of cuckoo clocks?

As though the rain on the concrete
is not rain, and there is no concrete.
It is inside or outside, it is a sky blueing
or a platelet whitening.

How the air bends and light slows down
to size up each particle it encounters
as a potential dance partner,
to samba for a moment that is forever

or only a fractal second, or never at all.



Julie Cameron Gray is originally from Sudbury, Ontario. She has previously published two full length collections of poetry – Tangle (Tightrope Books 2013) and Lady Crawford (Palimpsest Press, 2016) which was shortlisted for the Pat Lowther Award. Her work has also appeared or is forthcoming in various literary journals such as The FiddleheadVallumPrairie FireCarouselGrain, and anthologized in The Best Canadian Poetry in English. She currently lives in Toronto.   

This poem was originally published in Vallum issue 17:2. To view other content published in this issue, Vallum’s website.

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