overhead wires are detailed
in thin stripe of snow. on the ground
nothing’s detailed. ice thick
as a dinnerplate, brittle as over-
cooked steaks and the plates
which they sit on and snow
lies on that. I kick through the 5am
closed lights of chinatown
restaurants, over toward saint
patrick station, university
ave and the edge of the sky-
scraper neighbourhoods. stop
for a coffee and plastic-
wrapped bagel in corner cafe
chain, hunched under high
weights of offices. somewhere a train
creaks and buses stir, restless
as horses. my hands in my pockets
wear thin leather gloves, very stylish
and useless for cold. they stink
of stale beer and spilled
coffee from january mornings – an earthy
and hard-working smell.

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DS Maolalai has been described by one editor as “a cosmopolitan poet” and another as “prolific, bordering on incontinent”. His work has been nominated fourteen times for BOTN, ten for the Pushcart and once for the Forward Prize, and released in three collections: “Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden” (Encircle Press, 2016), “Sad Havoc Among the Birds” (Turas Press, 2019) and “Noble Rot” (Turas Press, 2022)