Threewrite

So that was the re-write,
round two
about the other stuff,

it wasn't supposed to be
about you,

and the next time
I'm certain it
won't--

But listen:

I hear voices--
the weeds in the cracks of the
sidewalks sing
me songs when i'm
drunk under the
Jacques Cartier bridge and
the frost phones
before arriving
like the gentleman that he is

and a hymn is playing
outside the window right now
no one knows why

but I'm in the
last few lines here and I
felt pretty good about having
escaped without
referring to you once.