McLuhan’s Canary

by Bruce Meyer

Taj texts me as I lie down to sleep.
He says the sunrise over Mumbai
is goldly ancient with muezzin voices,
and his day begins as mine is ending

with moths buzzing on my window,
and the voice of a small world
crying in a dream I must bring to life.
Morning light on the Arabian Sea

is the colour of azaan filling the heart,
calling the world to its singular truth
as I pray that I will wake tomorrow.
The world lives one everlasting dawn

where time is only an illusion.
We no longer dwell in day or night
but in the eternity of a creative mind,
that instant when we think and speak.

It’s a small world, my not so distant friend,
and we are brothers across beliefs.
A canary sings in a perfumed garden,
and Taj asks if I can hear it.

It sings a daybreak that will not cease,
in a world that cannot stop its turning.
I text him back that I hear the bird,
the song of a planet in search of itself.

— from Juniper Volume 1, Issue 2