Dans la Direction de Paris
On the train to Paris,
I brush my hand across your hand
then draw it back. I think of you
and you are already a memory,
the memory of a memory...
In Plaka the travertine streets are worn
slippery and pockmarked under our dusty sandals.
We make unpretty loops around broken marbles
and columns that once stood up for something.
The ruins are indifferent to us...
In the ancient city it is impossible
to feel old. Gelato colored buildings and dusty
paint on the walls around as we walk
snake-charmed sampietrino streets.
On the terrace of the Hassler Hotel bar
the sun sets dark into glintings of possibility
alive in a prosecco glass. A surround
of stars appear each a tiny flashlight
of regret memorialized, not the wish or
a navigator’s solace but marking instead:
if only I had done this instead of that...
We stared at the ocean because
it was there like an empty box
or an instrument we never learned
Dried fishnets on the shore
and funeral ghats surrounded
by spectators and bursts of orange
Ode to a Pear
Royal Riviera Pear,
there’s no other pear
that compares to you.
Luscious and large,
golden and blushed,
like a cherub you arrive
on my doorstep...
Over rooftops and forests, rivers, domes
and the belfries of Vilna, the magic carpet
in my mind flies to a small maze
of buildings where the ghettos used to be...