and here I am
unsure if I am the ghost or the haunted

I am a matter of fact
I am the disbelief.
Do not follow me
all ye who are weary.

Carla and her mate lead me by the frozen lake
The child in her womb kicks.
We throw rocks at the ice and flee from a swan.
I talk boldly of war and meekly of love.
Carla talks about that brief moment when we were young.
I smoke.
She says it will not harm the child.

Canada treats me too kindly
as if she forgets the summers she gave me,
forgets the lovers she gave me,
forgets the debt she owes me,
the smokey starlit steps and the whispering under the apple trees

Oh Canada,
what of my striving on the Plains of Abraham?
what of our singing and her hand on my knee from the driver's seat?
what of our shaking limbs, what of our hunger and our bleeding deep within?
what of the Basilique Notre-Dame de Montréal
and all the saintly graces carried on the Laurentian wind? 

you break my heart.

she does not forget
the melting snow runs and flows in rills of pain and mystery
'My love, oh my love, what the fuck.'

I crease at the bar, let whisky tickle my tongue,
scream for help
reach for love
I crease and shiver and bend

The city accuses
and then the city pities.
Tamil girls party in expensive dresses
I take my notes and the band plays classics.
I imagine the world on fire.
 
The city pities
and then the city accuses.
It asks for Anna.
I take the street car
and watch us walking to the book store.
We look good.
We look young.
I die in my seat.
Fräulein puts a hand on my thigh:
'Is it something you ate?'
 
From the top floor of an apartment block I see all our conversation and our mysteryand do you know -
our old bed is a monument
that all the traffic circles.
and we are legends of an old myth
and saints of a new faith,
so the city preserves us
and the city extols us,
for our bodies
and our mystery
and our ignorance.

and I am Saint Here
laughing about this date with the Hollywood actress
thrusting my way through the lounge
in this airport
or in this bar
laughing about dying young
laughing about the book
eyeing this woman after that woman
and always mourning Anna,
who had to die
but did not.

and here I am
descending into London
older and shaken and stinking of shit
with old love alive in my heart
with old books and old songs and old whisky on my lips
not shattered so much as shattering
creased over in the back of a cab
the hilarity
the misery
the non-entity
the continuity

and here I am
Anna
and so I am