A Rainy Weekend on Top of Mont-Royal

i.
Some plum trees, near winter:
hard, bald fruit and
six or so yellow leaves
shivering on tips of
twisted Van Gogh branches—
stiff shoulders, arms lifted
in praise: these I know.
And the bare-knuckle, fallen
raw wound plums: purple
pock marks on a dry lawn, rotting
in the churchyard. These
I know.

ii.
On the corner of Sainte-Catherine
and Rue Crescent: a lit match,
quivering ruby smudge in a
fog gray night. (I know, at least,
the smell.) Thirty dollars richer in gin,
I know the swimming through
crowds of chills. I know the
bar doors opening and
closing like coral polyps, and
I know their insides: a hollow sound,
smooth pink underbellies.
Sticky floors.

iii.
Yesterday was years ago, waiting
for the metro at Champ-de-Mars.
I knew the cold
smell, the eclipse of
black coffee in a white cup.
Today I folded words, days-old
into paper cranes and
set them forcedly free,
leaning and aching
in the hotel sink. I don’t know
words any more, I don’t know
a city, a November
weekend with
you in it.