baked brick, dark bread,
breath sinking into a hot, grey bath when
caught in smoke between compartments
on the metro. pink lights from
the townhouse on rue de rushbrooke
blinking away as the sky tries to dark. stillness
losing out, always, to movement.
chequered tile, white corduroy,
men who smell exactly like
their animal selves eating dollar-seventy
hamburgers out of wax paper. the radio
doesn’t work, but someone’s playing
billie holiday upstairs, and someone else’s hearing it,
and it sounds right, being so far away.
music rigid and counter-history in a night
that is not. a night that is neat in the parade
of nights. the streets are full of garbage. laundry
yellow and falling out of the sky like flowers.
a small boy walks and walks and walks along charlevoix
without coming across a single