(in the dream it is late March)
there's a light rain in Montréal & the sky
is a gorgeous, early-morning variety of slate grey. imagine the lid
of an old metal garbage-can.
everything is dismal, perfect. and quiet; even the people leaving the bars are silent.
dismally, perfectly, silent.

ghosts of old cats—belonging maybe to ghosts of old ladies who lived, say, just off St. Lau, back
in the eighties—ramble downhill, in the direction of rue St. Catherine (Saint Cat! O patron of felinity!) ,
between the legs of those spilling out from the trendy & shitty clubs.
some of the ghosts wander out into the street, flash thru car tires that would've (& have) (at one time)
smashed them to pulpy carpet on the asphalt.
(who goes to pick them up then? when the tires have had their way with them over & over?
when they are just hair & porridge by a sewage grate?)

after a greasy smoked-meat-on-rye or a nightcap at somebody's place, just off the drag,
i'm in a sodden, but warm overcoat, hands curled in the bottoms of it's pockets; mis-shapen mass
of hair plastered to my scalp; walking en bas de la montagne just past the McGill Medical Centre.
—this late, the busses back downtown are never on time.
(driver's probably having a few smokes before he starts that long tour down. full up of drunk kids,
taking one another back to their dorms, etc.)
(and what does he have, to look forward to at shift's end?
        i. a cranky wife—past her prime?
        ii. a buncha dogs—yapping for attention?
        iii. some fucking kid—who's disrespectful & won't shut up or turn his stupid fucking punk-rock down?

—it's enough to make me patiently wait.  i'll wait forever, as long as that isn't me.)

...'spose I'LL have a cigarette too. waiting
in the bus shelter on Ave. Des Pins looking down over the
football fields of the McGill Athletics Dept.
still lit up. no sun yet but
now at 4 AM a dull inch or two of lightened grey out there on the horizon.. dawn will come,

though i'd rather not face the day. all the mornings are so hard after nights like this.
bound to be hungover &
spend the day hiccuping in bed texting some girl; maybe get up
in the late afternoon t'fix coffee, toast & eggs.
sit on the balcony,
make my little guitar sigh,
and try to feel normal until i [have to] puke.

"—and who was that girl i spoke to for so long at St. Sulpice last night? how many gin-tonics did she let me buy myself, nattering on?.. probably too drunk to even get her number."
"—maybe Sean or Dylan will know if she came thru with anyone we knew.."

the bus is finally here. twenty-and-three minutes late. the back of it probably smells of
stale smoke, dim sun, and sweaty, rain-soaked cloth, absorbed from jackets into the seats—the eau du jour.
it's always a bump 'n jerk ride down the hill; bound to,
with the other handful of dumb & silent riders, drunkenly sway,
(or is it a natural compensation of the body, to groove along with the curves and stops?)
back & forth like carcasses of half-dozen slaughtered pigs
swinging on their hooks in back of a meat wagon..
(i'll end up getting on, but only for three blocks. i'll fucking walk the rest of the way home,
after that comparison. to hell with the rain.)

SIX MINUTES LATER:
(Avenue Des Pins still—4 blocks closer to downtown)

directly in line now with McGill campus via McTavish; this way i can
cruise down thru the silence of the main drag having a couple smokes drinking beer
(copped a 40 at a Dep before i left St. Lau—frosty under my arm enshrouded by brown paper.)
& be left to my own thoughts for fifteen minutes 'til i get to Sherbrooke
—i adore that fifteen-minute stretch down thru the jumble of
student associations, clubs, faculty offices, administration buildings, resources centres & the like;
all contained in the same red bricked, white trimmed victorian monster, multiplied threescore
on either side of the lane; all built in the early nineteen-hundreds, all acquired by the university in one of several expansion initiatives in a decade i won't bother to guess at, it doesn't matter. you don't care..

midway down the hill i stop and go sit on the verandah of one of the buildings,
the graduate studies in math offices —
cccrack that forty.
sit there with the sun JUST barely splitting the seam of the horizon feelin'
like the lyrics from a Sun Kil Moon song. nothing more or less.  
"off to a good start," says i.

Stars twinkle while suspended
in the dark sky above.
Some dim, others bright;
A handful hued, the majority white.
From their perch beyond, and
when their numbers appear multiplied
as the moon is absent,
they whisper, "destiny," to me.

You'll never see the Eiffel Tower

or the elephants in
India
or
that painting place in
Portland
that you saw in
the paper
last week.

Last week.

a week when you were you
again
(and I was all of me again)
and you were breathing air
again and
everything
       was
   right
        again

[again
again]

You'll never see the the moon shine
and
I'll never see your smile

again

or hear your laugh
and hug
and 90's tshirt

(the camel on the front)

or see you walking up
the gravel

a hand over your eyes
to see the way.

To see the way again.

I need to see the way
again.

Shhhhh...
the only sound I want to hear escape your lips
is your breath
amiss in the sweeping endless echo of this ocean
I enjoy the feeling my fragile body
pulled and pushed
in this distance between us
I easily wave away these subtle forces
in my motion in your tight direction
subtlety hides this force that could take either of us by storm
into dark submission
embrace this submission to your skin now
your thrashing heart now
your strong compassionate arms now
sharp rocks amass baby power granules
This is where my feet belong
Shivering in our humility
numb to all but our synchronized vibrations
rocking in our susceptibility
to the depth, the darkness, the knowledge that together, now know
it binds our arms, strongly woven
fragile are we are in each other now
but strong in our conviction
anything could take us now, at this moment
we haven’t any worries
what can fear do for us now?
In the way you fit in the swoop of my neck and shoulder
we are pierced together, forever in this moment
the moon as she witnesses
Perhaps she sees something that keeps her
we are at the bones of mercy, of her power
and your body carried flush against mine
You hold me as if I carry some smoldering deep power situated in me
You are so much stronger than me, its in your grip
in the way you hold unto me
in the battle from which you contain your powerful thumping heart
that speaks so little of my own nudity
in this current situation
like I save you somehow
that my presence heals your predicament
smother me in your predicament
so that I may truly feel at your side
carried in that small corner of your heart
breathe into me
your passions
my sheltered trust
your devotion
because while my body was not created to serve you
a small part of my being has been dedicated to you
silently,

The madness of the moon
Makes everyone go insane
The mentally stable stand no chance
Only the mad can survive
Living in a collapsed hope
Wishing it would be over
But it's just the beginning

I am sorry that I
           pulled
                      and
                            pulled
until it hurt to move your feet apart anything more than six inches

I am sorry that I pulled you in
only to push you away
and leave you
with a knot in your stomach the size of
                                                                           canada
I did not mean to pull your stitches out and
open a glass case full of ghosts and
left the sugar crystals stuck between your teeth I am
not who you thought I was I am
moonshine
under
moon shine and I am
a trigger warning I am a
trigger warning
trigger
warning
Don't forget about me