I am taking a vacation on the left bank
of your heart. I wear my beret
slouched to the left, dangle a smoldering
Gauloise carelessly (in the American manner)
in my right hand, take long walks
by the Seine of your feelings. Sometimes
the river barely moves, I think, but it
is always there, threading the bridges,
changing from gloss to black
in the variorum of sun and shadow.
Book vendors are everywhere;
I am in my element, and free.
Such a place to stroll!
It reminds me of the Paris,
the sweet Montmartre we will
never walk, mon homme,
and I want to send you
a postcard. The usual,
and heartfelt at that:
Wish you were here—
–from Rattle #24, Winter 2005