This day

is all poetry.

Victoria mist and fog and the smell of the ocean in Oak Bay Village. The weirdest anti-job interview of my life and old moccasins in a dark boarding room at eleven am. Carla's floppy bun held in place by a thick blue hair elastic. Soft orange lamps and blues music in Bean that remind me of my father's living room on late winter afternoons. Tepid evening sunlight that knocks at wooden charcoal rain clouds. Warm blankets and woolly socks and cold air through a half-open window. And all these workshop poems that I actually enjoy reading.

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