The streets are new, the harbour
is new also;
the lunatic asylum is yellow.
On the first floor there were
women sitting, sewing;
they looked at us sadly, gently,
answered questions.
On the second floor there were
women crouching, thrasing,
tearing off their clothes, screaming:
to us they paid little attention.
On the third floor
I went through a glass-panelled
door into a different kind of room.
It was a hill, with boulders, trees, no houses.
I sat down and smoothed my gloves.
This landscpae was saying something
but I couldn't hear. One of the rocks
sighed and rolled over.
Above me, at eye level
to where there were streets and
the Toronto harbour
I shook my head. There were no clouds, the flowers
deep red and feathered, shot from among
the dry stones,
the air
was about to tell me
all kinds of answers
