it was the second time

this month
catching the last metro
from Charlevoix
lugging my bike
and a poor night's misfortune
with sore feet

and thinking
about the lack of history
that lay beneath Montréal

how I longed for Sofia:
an underground museum
at every metro station,
the time there waiting
amidst the relics
like a tree growing
into its roots

but here on the platform
of Lionel-Groulx
with its gaudy orange
60s bathroom tiles
I must occupy myself,
and so I reminisce about
how some numbers
make me feel

how 6875 reminds me
of what I’ve been putting off
and 5359 used to be my go-to
and 777 brings me cheer
and 888 was supposed to be
somehow luckier

I watch as the humble spider
builds her web
concentric circles winding inwards
pulled taut with each diligent step

and I think to myself
how I should like to be a moth
and caught in such a web
to be the prey
of so elegant a creature

Suspicions and mistrust
run high

so we hold ourselves tight
dread locked and buy
deadlocks for the doors
and deadlocks for the deadlocks
in case anyone tries to steal those too

then circle the whole thing with a moat
and from inside we burn the bridges.

We watch our backs
our fronts, our wallets
our mothers, but
oh mother, especially
our wallets
because that is how we speak
now.

We speak
not with words but with money
and self expression is a valuable thing
and it’s a crime to keep quiet.

At two in the morning
the police come to knock on your door
to chide you and remind you
that a number value is
very relatable.

You want to be related to,
don’t you?

They go on to tell you just how valuable
it is and was (before inflation)
because
we’ve been tracking it
with google statistics.

You’ll find all the details
in the police report.

the sun sets to the west
over Mont Royal

like the sun sets to the west
over the Hudson Bay

and you run to catch it
as if it were the last one

and you think time passes
while you're away

but everything is on standby
even the rotation of the earth

waiting for you

kissing you feels like
you’ve pulled down the stars from the heavens
and you’re tickling my lips with them

kissing you feels like
you’ve bottled liquid sun
and you’re pouring it into my mouth

kissing you feels like
you’ve grasped the clouds in your hands
and you’re smothering my eyes with them

     - kissing you feels like kissing the sky

My dear familiar,
come stand a little closer
that the tether between us
may hang slack.

Come stand a little closer
and with love we will tie a bow,
so loosely
so fragile
as to be easily undone.

Oh now my dearest,
we need not cut our ties
when the circumstances of life
pull us apart,
as they are wont to do.

And though apart we stand
I will feel the familiar tug
that draws us together

and together we will come
again
and
again
until the motions become
so familiar
as to make dance of it.

Don’t call it wisdom that
you’d never known the pain
of being stung
and so with a childish naiveté
you cradled the dazed bee in your palm.

And don’t call it mercy that
when the needle lodged
burning into your flesh
so briskly did you crush
a creature
already fated to die.