It’s a lake.
It’s a bridge.
It’s a hunk of steel.
It’s my take,
it’s my hitch,
it’s my evening meal.
By the lake
is my wedge
in the hyper-real
hypervision of the 21st century.

Here she wakes
by the ledge
by a brink she feels.
As a colour
as a weather,
she’s metallic blue.
With the green glass of her windows
and the ruby of her Rocket
and the vendors in her markets
and the verdigris, the verdigris
the roofs of the 19th century
on a triangle building
on a spire.

She’s a condo.
She’s a parkette.
She’s a Firkin Bar.
She’s I want to.
Do you want to?
Yes, I want to.
She’s Toronto.
She’s the fact that
we can’t fake it
since you can’t fake
a mosaic.

She’s New York’s younger sister
in a flirty cloud-blue skirt.
She’s new gold;
she’s the 21st century flirt.

The blue of the water,
the grey inside the why,
the silver of complexity,
the haze of ambiguity.
the growing ache,
the price of mistakes:
a figure by the lake
bent over by the weight
of its future.

it wants to rise
but when it looks across the century
it tries to hide its eyes.
Now it’s rising
from a heap of sand
and realizing
that it’s taking command.

There’s a silver nativity
and a blue proclivity
at the base of the city’s flame.
There’s the shock of three O’s in her name.
The O of her halo,
The O of surprise,
The polyglot O of the potentially wise.

View Molly Peacock’s author profile.

Recommended Reading