still building (viii – xiv)




den draws us

out of quiet

key that fits

in answer too


someone stays

left hand draws

behind past years

drawers of swords


left unsaid

trade tools

books and breath

a relic, outdoors


spins dream dust

down from ceiling

stacks maybes

long see


a million cords can’t

tell me

click quiet

like a mouse


stare two screens

emily is industrious

fedoruk works

choose titles, monitor


in names sadness

scrawls a poet

tuned to

close calm




well played

She speaks loudly and holds court crouched small among thrones

My mother wants a circus


The sheer vagueness of gauze curtains is secure.

The ground swamps

years of stifling awed audience

we squint at others,

tell a vision.

Child of artist stomach presses floor

hard from laughs

book covers balance

liquids mock the tracks

made by her spills.

They close them

grown to cupboards.

Stand and wait,

a heavy clock.




living relatives

my two sisters speak

and sound like dad

three pillars, mysteries


how the house is balances by acoustics


but we block them


the track

whole lengths


like waves


lines cut



                                    small sheets of butter coloured glass a blunt trident and times tried

                                    to see through gets up an leaves

                                    the future of houseplants


and records of this

(right room

for living)




chimes in

square backed and so wanting to be strong

doors like that

swing of the axe


Instead they carry on bags umbrellas she slides shoes to wait for me tomorrow I take a

long look two mirrors to say goodbye a double wide entry prolongs as long as you’re here

you should stay




if the porch

could talk

it says

at least I’m holding my own

not just a get away

those letters home

come back, add up

to twenty

as in any return a state

of the self





Jeff, my basement brother.

we stand in a house of 1929 and a family of four

. . . [and] I would hate to stand in the way of development.


i sit still along the lines his blanket makes

                                                            we would hold soft satin corners hard until they corroded

angle remote, know better than to touch

a pile of books

two heads rest read to

move and replace to erase my shape

                                                            rubber dust and drawing, he writes ‘we attended art camp’

friends lie she says sounds of instruments left hanging

                                                                                                we got the jazz, share cds, could

neaten the past, like I said, tell a vision

                                                                                                play along harmonize young punks

rejects protection sister gets jumped and

                                                            looks for lines near him, in his wake he draws blinds

says most people won’t hurt you but i argue i’m cornered

                        play at grass above, the end drawn by tiny hands held fascinated at that spot


i hear everyone that comes into this house

waits small face at window

but listen

i’m true




a closet that outgrows dress ups calls costumes of rows of standard American tshirts hung on identical ikea wooden hangers two are heaters gleam smiling boxes keep baring teeth constantly showing something new walls work in a soft mustard but he doesn’t like it so store it forgotten technology their shells are cyclical draw back that pink lace curtain imagine a dead man under chosen without her consent subjective our children’s books reduced to whispers soft Styrofoam sunken into makes ships of furniture in floods hear that the yellow is the same as an old blind knowing the stereo starts here




- Emily Fedoruk