Montréal

I am writing this at a window and you are drinking wine
And you smile amazed at what still can happen to men like me
Who believe that beauty saves us
In that it rests beyond our momentary world and enters
Into a glaze of hope, this being desire; and this love
That visits us in the time of passing rains
Fleeing briefly across winter’s end and onto spring’s first days,
New water of ashen skin smoothed in rotten barley and field ice
And the taste of sky and honeyed shadows; but we do our
Best to recognize this earth as we surface again, and our closeness
Shelters in distant, naked trees lined tightly inside ribs of snow,
The past’s weight extinct of what winter shouldered
And what spring could be this moment if only bodies
Would try to be what they remembered. Like the wind that parries up
Against the woods from my car saying, “I am taking you back to her.
The empty part of her, the barren isle of you.” It claims,
“Love hypothesizes that which is mostly free of the world.”
And I hear you are still amazed that this is you
In Montreal by this window drinking wine where I gaze
Into the gleam of Montreal’s blank table, and onto Montreal’s vacant stools,
And see through Montreal’s vanished glasses filling with
The smell of wind-snow and the memory of strangers
And a room by a window, and its long afternoon
Holding to itself the passages of two bodies touching
In Montreal, in all that I know of you. Completely.

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