Dead
algae and pheromone spice:
there’s a full
circle
in
the smell of low tide
anointing
arches in the throat
as
Turner himself lays sun
like
coins on the eyes.
It’s quiet but
for all this gold
you
can’t take with
you,
sky
with room for just itself.
In
the foreground a towel
tied
to the railing where stairs
enter
the seascape—
someone’s in the
water.
For
a moment before I get too close
it’s not
impossibly you
—a
bell sounds seven and the spell
ends.
Light unspools. I start
back
toward a stuck door.
Voices
clink at Sargasso,
air
purpling, the harbour’s arm
some
comfort. Toast.
Binoy Zuzarte (he/him) is a writer and creative director. Recent poems appeared or will be found in Arc, Augur, and The Shore, as well as In-Between, an art show centred on the Canadian immigrant experience. He lives with his partner and their dog in Toronto, where he is working toward his first collection.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
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