I was 15 when I first became deeply touched by the rhythm and structure of words.

The troubles came and I saved what I could save. A thread of light, a particle, a wave.

This mental space is occupied and everything is mine.

There is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in.

It's time that we began to laugh and cry and cry and laugh about it all again.

In Montreal spring is like an autopsy. Everyone wants to see the inside of the frozen mammoth. Girls rip off their sleeves and the flesh is sweet and white, like wood under green bark. From the streets a sexual manifesto rises like an inflating tire, “the winter has not killed us again!

I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm, your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy, golden storm, yes many loved before us, I know we are not new, in city and in forest they smiled like me and you, but now it's come to distances and both of us must try, your eyes are soft with sorrow, Hey, that's no way to say goodbye.