You are predictable and incomprehensible like
Stephen Harper's Christmas sweaters,
banal smiles and Alberta French;
you are meant to practice but not understand
strategic voting and habituation.
I'm going to get better, Caelum, she said,
and by the time I stopped crying it was January.
She died. (You might not know this; junkies die.)
Or I could breathe --
adrenaline, endorphins, and fresh air.


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