what i remember about montreal, 2011

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the radio was on when we were crossing the bridge
and you thought their french
sounded funny

trying to look around,
observe things
at stoplights
through chinatown
to the latin quarter

i remember getting bagels
and that cafe with all the plants
that was just perfect
a picture of a window
with rectangles of
construction paper
behind the glass,
evenly spaced
colours i liked

season colours-
things we wore-
my brown boots
and you in my
yellow sweater
often
a diner
sitting in the window booth
up front
coffee
and back then
i think we took it
with cream

walks
always walks
the spiral
staircases
the bricks paintings
on the walls
a shoestore named
yellow,
that sign OMMA
with the floral
letters

i think we took
your car
i assume
we went to a bakery
because that’s
what we love,
loved.

this city’s great
thinking yeah yeah
this is great
turning a corner and
yeah, maybe one day
i’ll move here

leaves dropping
in the backgrounds
of things-
a gentle
autumn snow

park bench
kinder egg
in all the pictures
your eyes, they’re closed

arriving, portland maine

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cigaretting up
on the fire escape
it’s january first.

renter’s insurance
our names
in ink
in target with a big red
shopping cart and furniture
folded up, undone
driving home lost
familiarity a gift
quiet
now just me and darling
the cat now
for a little
while

shoveling snow
is a lot of work
and there’s one paperwhite
bloom
in the window

walking through town
rosy coat to knees
up high right
on congress
local sprouts a house
mug a buck
twenty five across
the street a general store
i liked,
memory isolated –
soon went out
of business
after
that day i went in
looking for a screwdriver.

snow and sidewalks
made of red
bricks. napping not
knowing how
to get started
staring at new pale
walls fumbling
forgetting
things

livorno, april 2007

i am in italy now,
kieran’s apartment
bialetti
answering phones
“pronto”
i am ready.

the novelty
of kettle
and markets
clotheslines,

pocketed
aprons
mountain
tunnels

tender,
i am thinking about things
that will never come back.

traveller
pines,

like sleeping
in a big bed
until a ridiculous
afternoon time
then strawberries
and toast
drink tea
in my pajamas

this is what i want.
the bliss
of walls
of personal
space.

white grass
spread florally
island,
fortress
warm april
a dress
with lace

siesta
the laze
of it, grown
up napping

sun sea,
mediterranean
sometimes i think of peter
and i do not know why.

new years eve, 2010

swiss beer fondue
german champagne
bûche du noël

small unpackings
the necessary ones
forks and plates
plugging in lamps
arranging
the living room
our mattress still
in the center you
asleep and i’m nudging
whisper hey it’s almost
midnight-

august 5th, 2010

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“already
my body is a twilight: solid. gold
at the edge of a larger darkness.
but outside
my window
a summer day is beginning. apple trees
appear, one by one. light is pouring
into the promise of fruit.”
– eavan boland

roger williams park
afternooning
in the swans
paddling
on a lake

walking
japanese gardens
lunching
pita and raita
yellow plums lemon
cookies

lily pads little
bridges, your
camera up close –
blue dragonfly.
swans the ducks
they are brown and we
are feeding them
pepitas we
are strolling
just strolling

in evening
wearing red
yarn tied
up in hair
because i miss some things
about myself
sometimes.

we are reading
the “grean tee” email
couches, taking
turns with pauses
elaborations
together remembering
a beginning
a bedtime
story that one of peter
and wendy yes
that one.

loft

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moving day
rachela’s loft
making walls
of bedsheets
floral, calico
i remember
there are birds called wendies

shopping cart sounds
in night, and morning
bus ride, LAX
steetlight fire
flies pass on windows
and the palms
like black balloons

summer warms in february
1st street to glendale
overheating car green
leaking to the curb
groceries, immigrants
cans of beans
kidney, pinto

friend in red, singing
1920’s roxy
heart i was driving there –
the unknown theatre –
lost in hollywood, that
drumming melodic pedro
and his lion

pretty sure that was the night
i in white and you
said you know you look
an angel

autumn, rhode island

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swan point, cemetery
leaves like butter
flies twirling
in air, as girls do
in pretty dresses.
and the sugar maples
they are lit up.

to johnston,
a patch, picking
a long island cheese
a cinderella

how to keep
this autumn
little shivers
nose sniffles
and you say my hair
sometimes
is the colour
of copper