Halfdrunk Pome on the Glory of the Streetscapes of Time and Memory and Montreal when you and Daivd and Ren were there

another long
stickyhot
walking under
Montreal sun when i
passed that spot again and i
had almost forgotten until
just now
how i almost lost you in
the concrete and the crowds there
was a certain music only
we (four) could hear it and
it swelled inside my lungs and inside my
eyes
it was another
afternoon you were
so much in
your new dress and i'd always
wanted you and
you always halfway knew it and it
made you feel so
strong and so
alive and i
would have
changed my name
for you then, or
joined a
cult,
if you'd asked me to--

i couldn't help it,
anyone would have--
it was magic
we were alive with
every moment of
possibility and you
shimmered in the
heat of the day with
life and all its
endless permutations when we
walked up the
mountain and into the park--

the boisterous caribbean picnic the
dog dragging a lawn chair on his
leash and his tongue hanging out and
laughing too, he knew, like
us that that it was
funny he was
being a clown and the
family sitting down the hill from
us while i read your
complicated
musings on Virginia Woolf and
the hot young half-naked
college kids playing
frisbee it was all
alive the Lac du
Castors was alive with its orange
goldfish and its green
algae the pavillion was
alive the city itself with
breathing and alive it was
everything that was
you in your new dress and

now,
a week later to the
minute,
mostly drunk and
alone, i had to
stop on ste. catherine
under the
strip club sign and
write this all down.