American

Montreal Poem; or, Our Hearts Are Not Like Wheels; or, Les Habitants

If I were to write

a Montreal poem,

or a poem about Montreal,

I would not mention the mountain, or

Saint-Viateur, or

fire escape couture, the Jew belle-lettrists,

the week we each ran into Leonard Cohen,

buying plums at the depanneur,

or reclining on a bench

in Parc du Portugal.

Grey suits for everyone.

I would not ask

you to remember Jeanne-Mance

or Maisonneuve, the parties

the parties,

the Labatt 50 and tequila, late night promenades

in empty rooms with August windows. Please, no slow dancing

in the street.

No sliding down lamp-

posts. No more McGarrigles. No,

our hearts are not like wheels,

are they?

I would not say this now, dear.

I would not start this poem again.

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

The bomb and the raindrop overlap briefly.
Nice night, says the drop.
Where you headed? says the bomb.
Don't know, says the drop.
Well goodbye, says the bomb.
The bomb thinks, I am too heavy to make friends. Then he touches
the mudbrick building.
Shortly after, landing in debris, the drop thinks, O.