so let's go north
and nuzzle in a blanket
made from the fur
of albino squirrels.
there, we can put out fires
and start new ones,
drink wine in bed,
and watch the world
go from grey to gray
outside the windows.
there, we can listen to
Canadian folk music
and read Quebecois poetry
to a ceiling fan that hasn't worked
in 12 years and 8 months.
we can go where
words work again
and mean more than money,
because just as I was about to give up,
she came along on a pelican
and helped me heel wounds
that are older than fossils.
called Boisbriand,
an off-island suburb of Montreal,
on the north shore of the Rivière des Mille Îles
where we will eat bagels
from Hasidic communities
and stand out like sore thumbs.
there, we can make new,
make love, make cookies,
make rivers our haven,
and just be still
for a long, long time.