Rizzuto's Lullaby

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.

And the Maker-Modler Sleeps

The maker-modeler formed them from corn, but
Not us. The sun danced around the world a-
Hundred-hundred times before we were cast—cast
Both too early and yet too late—we were
Born of run-off, excess, and atrophy.
We were built by the same men who dissected
The sun. And we worshipped their magic with
The very same fervor of the corn-people
Who presented still murmuring hearts to
Chichen Itza.
There are no roosters here. No roosters to
Encourage the still steadfast sun. Still, he
Climbs over the lip of the colourless horizon,
gathering quick breaths over the yawning river—
He Climbs.
The money makers and movers mourn in
Black, despite the fact that: still, the sun climbs.
It is well known that roosters are maudlin
Creatures—gossiping to pass time. The men who hide
Their eyes and feign virginity have stripped
The sun. They have stripped the sun of his gold.
They have taken his lore, they have taken
Its voice.
The roosters have told us many secrets,
They have told us many myths, but they have
Not told us about the corn. Next to Chichen Itza
Men were buried with corn to sustain them;
They have grown roots while we waste in wait for
The boat-man.