untitled

The world will not hold its shape
Under indirect gaze, the streets
I am suddenly in Montreal again
The corners know me, the greenery
Waves, in surprising bunches
From all around the concrete
The statue of a poet seems to be
Waiting around the next block
For conversation

It is a strange and marvellous thing
The vision in corners of eyes
Less what is there than what is desired
Disappearing at the periphery
Folding in on a nonexistent self as I pass
Inciting traces of Nietzschian panic

The translation has drowned
The fine young mind of the artist
Bloated and leaking