Leaving

I'm moving to Montreal in about 3 weeks. I just returned from fishing. Here's a piece of writing that likely means nothing.

Sleep, marked by supination, curved line indicating a phrase,
and these things will come to pass: a lithe gate
opening onto steps you then were just about perched
upon; a manic lust, a derivative of ornate reason,
or so called by that phrase you found in a book you read
once, that time you were caught in someone else's bedroom;
that song stuck in your head at
7:59 am, two days now.

Or other things will happen. Like a single family
dwelling, a stir in your gut, the one that used to grow
bubble gum plants and root apple seed trees. And if an
apple grew in the stomach and an apple fell on your head,
the adverse effects would trip gravity. Maybe you'd
float.

Picture this, then. Signals on water, the glint of silver
backed schools, the wrappings of soggy paper; yesterday's
news. That the silence may open, once, then happened
upon, burst jittery to starve you back toward the city.
Deluxe, when you want them to be. Carved out pits to park
a life in. Something to move forward-like, thin out.

Attenuate.