Old Montreal

Where did I want to go with you, the brick streets,
the old town, that church. You’d think there’d
be some light, not this strangeness in the world
laid out in eyelets of rock-brailed roads
and the jelly sockets of prayer candles.
You’re right: I’m weak as a boy — to see,
I must be amazed everyday,
for certainty may only be in the unliveable
stories of faith, here, where I saw the arrow of flame
for the first time testing the air then jumping
from your hand back in to the marvellous
we each breathed.

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