i wrote this for javier vazquez, a baseball player. it was supposed to kind of tie in with a story i was working on, but i killed it and was left with this poem. shannon told me to, so it's all her fault!

like water.

Vazquez misses Montréal;
that beautiful city
where French is as common as water
(he never learnt it but he liked his women to whisper it in his ear)

Vazquez in the City,
where people are as hard as corpses,
and French doesn't flow from their
lips like water.
he is lost and out of place.
(now: he looks for beauty in each and every thing)

Vazquez longs for longer days,
for cork and cowhide and 108
red stitches,
perforated against his palm,
a rosary of baseball.
(he is nothing without it)

Vazquez in the City,
and all the French he never learned
flows behind his eyes
like water.
(and he falls in love)