Davis on Sherbrooke

by Gord Sellar

the anapests and dactyls of jazz
combine, enfold, iambs hidden at
the inner ear, and I could be
any city, could write any city
but this one. plastic bags, small
bits of paper float the dark lit
air; breeze menuet, impressionistic
jazz, Nefertiti sings the mannequins
their static pavanes, lachrymae,
lachrymae, behind glass walls;
advertisement at night, when we all
are least at risk, undressed and
sleeping, though I neglect my
Faulkner, take a long way back,
trochée Miles and miles of concrete
blooming us its incandescent wildflowers,
I pick them, with mind set
aside, knowing I pick here;
deciding with my feet that I
have come far enough; then home.

— Montreal, 2000

February 11, 2012

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