to juanita
late fall if i can call it that

not that the weather cares

making a mess of main park
know you’re not at home?

at the streetcar stop wear the effects

of the bloor street snowplough’s bow wave
ottawa-coteau-montreal

in a bilingual province

i know half the language
though the written world

in parallel text

seemed somehow sympathetic
emotional distance – is always

in miles   and if the island prison

library’s an escape
writing the air letter was

taking my homesickness pills

    or you write i wait
but it’s not us  just the mail

the more prescient of beginnings

dear j, hope this letter finds you