Arriving sleepless at the early-morning-garish Gare Centrale all day
all I long for is escape from the over-bright Montréal-in-August-light.

gare centralecote-ste-catherine
Every city has a first night.
I find mine on the nineteenth floor of number-one Côte Sainte-Catherine,
where Mount Royal runs into the mountain and Parc sideswipes the park.
Where finishing leaving collides with beginning to arrive I set suitcases down
to the sounds of tires squealing, metal tearing, windshields shattering.
That glass still glittering on the late lamp-lit pavement, falling careens into sleeping.
Until a second car crash whiplashes me awake again: fresh glass, fresh sirens.

accidents happen > > >
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