Telephone wires, dark as a line in a schoolboy''s notebook against the dawn; paint fl akes 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 Melançon for a quiet celebration of his city, its inhabitants, and the language that gives it life. You go forth, drunk on the multitudes, drunk on everything, while the lampposts sprinkle nodding streets with stars.