Brainer Loner Princess Spy
An apperceptive glance stalls
the wall clock’s second hand.
It’s my brain, paying out change.
It’ll take a moment to explain.
Enter the inventor of the time machine.
In no time
an invisible hand places a pod
inside every garage in suburbia.
The flung Frisbee
tracks the circumference of the earth.
Precisely at Halley’s Comet’s perigee
I cinch the cuff links on
my rented pleated shirt.
It’s not as if she
said anything, she said something.
But that something could be anything.
What we don’t catch is the catch.
In between times I’m wearing a wire
under my tux
underneath a northeastern sky
undergoing sidereal collapse.
Closer Than Far, Far Away
A shame about the swallows.
Twice a year I play the lotto,
on my birthday and the day I’m to die.
Like fat Elvis, a Tuesday.
Woman, O hard-headed woman
walking up the sidewalk with a
full-length acanthus-leaf mirror,
I remember you blowing me a kiss
even if you didn’t.
Metaphysics is so hokey. The plot twists!
You put your whole self in.
You turn it all about.
I was a new father
before I figured it out:
the bagpiper on the corner was
playing the theme from Star Wars.
Matthew Tierney’s most recent book is Probably Inevitable (Coach House Books), which won a Trillium Book Award in 2013. He is a former winner of the P.K. Page Founders’ Award and a K.M. Hunter Award. He lives in Toronto with his wife and son.