Telephone wires, dark as a line in a schoolboy's notebook against the dawn; paint flakes from houses drifting down like dust; the hulking shadow of a desk that emerges, stock-still as a cow, in the moment of waking. Join poet Robert Melancon for a quiet celebration of his city, its inhabitants, and the language that gives it life. From "Eden": You go forth drunk on the multitudes, drunk on everything, while the lampposts sprinkle nodding streets with stars. Robert Melancon, former poetry columnist for Le Devoir is a recipient of the Governor General's Award, the Prix Victor-Barbeau, and the Prix Alain-Grandbois.
