From here you can see
the arteries of light.
A thick, hoary—and almost
ominous—blanket of clouds descends
to smother Montreal.
A city dirty with techno-
coloured October leaves
gasping for chlorophyll.
A ville sullied by language.
A big smoke where mobsters still
meet silver screen-calibre endings.
The heavy greyness singing
the murmuring town to sleep,
putting out fires,
calming Rizzuto,
unplugging police.
From here you can see
the arteries of light.
Pockets of people
that huddle together,
while hating one and other
for keeping the heart-
ache at bay.
Or rather for reminding them that
heartache is stitched into us;
a seam we constantly
pull; a thread
that no one dares.