The city, however, does not tell its past,
but contains it like the lines of a hand....
· Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities

in freshly-poured concrete, fried-egg white
and politely cordoned off with orange tape,
someone has planted a handprint

between backlit plastic letters
that spell La Belle Province
sparrows refurbish a nest
with feathers, napkins, ketchup packets

on a somewhat crumpled twenty
someone has pencilled a thin moustache
on queen elizabeth's upper lip.

at Place Jacques Cartier
the fountain overflows with foam;
small children squeal
and clap, squishing fistfuls,
fashioning moustaches
and flimsy foam castles

a woman lifts a handful
and it drifts off, descending
to float across paving stones
boatlike, buoyant with light,
her handprint still in it