Once, I went out into the blizzard
to buy milk, bread, and some black hash.
Then I didn’t leave the apartment for a week.
Snow erased the street below.
Buried in Dostoevsky, I read
“The Brothers Karamazov”
as though I were on Moscow time.
I didn’t need the outside world
to know what was cold, what was evil,
what was passionate or profound,
— and the hours drifted elsewhere
as if in Russia.
Salvatore Ala 
As you can imagine, I liked this poem very much. Maybe because I love Montreal and Dostoevsky. And as you suggest here, the two seem to be related, especially if you add snow into the mixture. Thanks for sending your poems my way. Love, Sharon. ________________________________
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Thanks Sharon! And Happy Birthday once again. That short time I spent in Montreal was very special to me.
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