I mark my place in sound

here is where i am

raspily breathing through my new smoked lungs

slowly clanging bell of

tony & sons knife sharpening truck

stops to hone a cleaver

some lawnmower blades

ssshk ssshhhhk

someone, a womans voice

wracked

screaming “freeeed! Freeeeeed!”

somewhere on the train tracks.

Last night you were crying on the porch

“this city is colder”

“noone meets my eyes anymore, things have changed”

i hugged your shaking shoulders, my old friend

cried with you, like i always do

things always change here.

That's the nature

the shrugging shoulder of the mountain

gives us air

and luft

softly blows out old plans and

smooths our foreheads

I'm thinking now of old sounds.

frying of breaded meat at the family castle on Rachel.

The whine of baby-killers clearing snow from the sidewalk

voices forming strategy on our centre-sud porch

idealism breaking in the sun like crystalline dreams

after quebec

after the cellos and low voices on answering machines

and the wind blows through

blowing with it our intentions to quit smoking

to get away now and then

to find better work

i've been low to the ground, my old friend

our laughter together is all i've eaten for days

but i've learned to live on that

and sucking on the splinters of those dreams

this is my city after all

that at least

never changes.