These metal doors slide open wide
for a pair of camel pleather booties.
It is the train to Montmorency,
My thoughts fly through thick proofed windows.
They land on the darkened tracks,
disappearing under the wheels
before I even knew they left me.
I live up north,
you said to me once.
The letters of the past, postmarked from London:
I was once so eager to pencil in your address
and lick the envelopes shut.
Now I can get off the train to Montmorency,
right to your door.
Is it Sauvé?
I will never know.
I will never want to know.
I turn around instead and board for