Outside of Kantian space and time, do you miss dancing
in dusty basements where sex was once phenomenal?

How sunlight threads in morning frost, breath pluming
in knots between you and the snow-marbled fields?

When depression knocks, do the dead hide inside
poems, in the corridors between stanzas, curling fetal

in a b’s womb? (Are you here, now?) When the dead speak,
do words signify perfectly with presence? Does each

sentence sound like a symphony? Or appear in the mind’s
eye in 4k imagery? Have you ever walked across the surface

of a star? Are they as lonely as they look in my city sky?
Do you dream of microwaves beeping? Or reading Kafka

whose words are black scars? What do the dead think about
after the afterglow, if no one’s breathing? Don’t you miss

feeling, feeling, feeling? And failing, the soul search that
follows, from which you promise yourself to be reborn?


Saadi-Yusuf.-Headshot2Yusuf Saadi‘s first collection, Pluviophile, was shortlisted for the Griffin Poetry Prize. He currently lives in Montreal. http://www.yusufsaadiwriter.wordpress.com.






This poem was originally published in Vallum issue 17:1 Home.

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