Old Montreal

Where did I want
to go with you.
The brick streets,
the old town and
the 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
in the basilica.
You’re right: I’m
weak
as a boy — to
see,
I must be amazed
everyday.
The only certainty
could be
in the
unliveable
stories of faith,
I thought.
And then
I saw
the arrow
of flame
for the first time
testing the air
before jumping
from your hand
back in to
the marvellous
we each
breathed.

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