Museums can be nice. I liked the Montréal Museum of Fine Art very much. But I think I miss getting the metro more. It put London Underground to shame. As did the chips. And I suppose I miss poutine. And Christmas spent alone in an equally lonely city, an island of nearly two million missing for a day. And I miss how easy it was to buy the homeless Tim Hortons on the pound when it would have been inexcusable, at that price, to miss an old man in the cold smile custard into his beard, somewhere between ‘Merci’ and the empty hands of a clock. And St Joseph’s Oratory, of course, of course, with its ceilings higher than all hopes, where I indulged what I was having might be a (very) late religious experience before admitting it was altocelarophobia. And I miss Mount Royal and that tableau in the tundra etched from the summit, where Leonard Cohen’s face peered over the frozen city. Yes. Museums can be nice.
In the chrysalis, of this,
Let our love be buried,
On the backs
And be the blanket for my bones.
For when our parabola
And the sinews give way,
Our time will
push the tide in.
I wish, between the spinal synapses, I could insert a key, the teeth slotting into place like a bird, landing upon a telegraph wire.
And waiting, it would turn, it’s wings would spread, and exhaustion, slowly, would spring.
Outwards, amber exhaustion, melliferous, it malingers, before gushing from my pores, a Vesuvian embrace.
And my bones, the tension that wrought them, unravel like a tangerine skin, t’wards redamant relief.
Wings spread outward, the plane of days,
Just before the,
As merry as the day was long, I wandered, winderly,
Demure amber, skyward, encased the thread of day,
And I read the benches of the barely dead.
Planted I turned to the lake,
As, aimlessly, the moorhens mawked and paddled,
The slithers of the day,
Circling and encircling, nothing, a moment.
And showed a commitment to that aegis,
that I could not,
As I read the benches of the barely dead,
But how was I to know,
that love could be so?
That the curlicue of spooning frames,
framed the fate of future days
In which propinquity, silently, awakened us,
to a bond beyond safety.
We, shrouded, in a Catherine wheel,
of opalescent haze,
Where I’d been happy,
Just to have you near,
Holding my ears gaze,
in a saccharine scented dream.
And the untraceable innocence,
Of love yet known,
Bought joy yet to become a blemish.