Life

Bright as boatwash

we head for Montreal,

to Will’s house.

Will’s birthday.

Here’s Will!

New green sofa,

glass of Malbec,

roughhousing with the dog on the rug.

I love the rug.

It’s blue like a swimming pool.

Will gives us T-shirts from Japan.

We give him bath bombs.

Ruben and Ed show up from Buenos Aires.

We set off for Parc X.

Get lost.

Find Parc X.

Sit at outdoor tables.

Waiter draws a breath of horror

when I put an ice cube in my wine

but then, discovering

it’s Will’s birthday,

brings us course after course

including an octopus flavored with pine.

Dinner goes on and on.

Birthday gâteau to finish and all the waiters

standing round to sing, handing out Calvados.

It rains.

But we are under an awning.

That seems perfect.

Drive Ruben and Ed to their hotel.

Everyone hugs everyone.

Back at Will’s

Will says best birthday since 1968.

I have some reservations but they are narcissist

once again too cold to wear my smashing orange dress,

for example.

I always say this but it’s true, there are

so many things

I don’t understand,

I don’t mean steak tartare,

I mean irony, corpses, how to not

see yourself everywhere in comparison.

How to see instead what’s there.

Recently having learned to recognize the type of tree called sycamore,

I see them in any forest—

the ones that look harrowed, in shreds, but

go also

straight up into life,

like Will’s dog who, although old and may not last the year,

I saw soar across the swimming pool on no feet.