one midnight in montreal, sliding open my window
to alleviate the heat, i happened to witness
saint lawrence escorted discourteously
by a hairy pair of arms
from the back exit of o'regan's irish pub;
the door slammed behind him,
his fist skimmed the door, and his curses
were slurred, and went unanswered.
muttering drunkenly to himself
as rivers tend to do, disgruntledly
damning this and damning that,
he sopped his lip with a soggy beermat,
yelled at his beltbuckle
to eff the fuck off,
and as if each forgetful foot was stuck
in a bucket of lukewarm water,
sloshed around the corner
and stumbled behind a dumpster, pissing
for twenty minutes, easily

all over the wall, the alleyway,
the windowsill, the fire escape,
the parking lot across the street
and over all the rooftops

the sound of solid clouds
smashing into something wet
like fists on filthy countertops

a city briefly lit
as if by cameraflash, so that only
what you're looking at stands out,
the rest as abruptly black
as the backgrounds of photographs
tipsily snapped in a badly-lit bar

(it's because the light was like that
that i remember any of this)

til gutters groaned incoherently
and drainpipes gasped for forgiveness
he pissed like a public fountain
flush with summer thunderstorm

and afterwards sighed, shook himself dry
and wandered south, soused and satisfied.
the thunder ended. lightning continued distantly,
like a television seen from the street
submersing an empty livingroom in damp blue bursts

turning off my fan to better hear the rain
i lay on my mattress, listening to the universe
argue softly with itself