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He called her:  golden dawn She called him:  the wind whistles He called her:  heart of the sky She called him:  message bringer He called her:  mother of pearl barley woman, rice provider, millet basket, corn maid, flax princess, all-maker, weef She called him:  fawn, roebuck, stag, courage, thunderman, all-in-green, mountain strider keeper of forests, my-love-rides He called her:  the tree is She called him:  bird dancing He called her:  who stands, has stood, will always stand She called him:  arriver He called her:  the heart and the womb are similar She called him:  arrow in my heart.

Sweet Marie-Anne, she thought Being French, intellectual and brunette Entitled her, in any Parisian cafe To prompt service—and she was Probably right, (as the Policeman Later confirmed)—always provided The situation was normal, and She herself did not let the race down. So that afternoon, she said to me: “Sit by me,mon cheri, and order A drink!”—Well! The waiter came As was his duty, only to stand aghast At the unspeakable scandal of a Full-blooded French woman kissing This merde of a black man openly and Full on the lips!—Purebred son of The Galls, his first impulse Was to smash his tray at the black head And shriek out for help to the army of riot Police permanently stationed on the streets Of the Latin Quarter . . . —But He was a non-violent man, and besides, He had the customer’s tip to think of. So he turned to me, swallowing hard, and With controlled French politeness, he said: “M’sieur, please sit OPPOSITE the lady— “Yes, with the sacre table between you, face To face—Or mon cul, dammit, I shall Not serve you!”—And I was still wiping off Her lipstick, wondering what to do, when my lady Spoke, her face red with indignation: “But You’re mistaken! This one’s not like the rest, “Can’t you see! He’s a bon sauvage, and has Written such brilliant essays in impreccable French “On the phallus of—pardon, the merits of Negritude! Show him my dear!” she turned to me, “Show how well “You quote Molière, Corneille, and—” But the waiter Was already smiling and bowing: I had passed my test.

hunched over the greasy burner on the stove was noir, as in film noir, as in cauchemar, as in le nuit not blanche but noir, the dream you can’t wake up from, meaning she was a mouse fatale, licking the old oil glued to the old cooktop, feasting in her tiny hunched-up sewer life on fats & proteins for her bébés all atremble in their rotting poubel nest, so when I screamed my piercing Anglo-Imperial scream of horror & betrayal— not my stove, not my traces of pot au feu— she leaped, balletic, over the sink, the fridge, the lave-vaiselle, & back to the cave& the trash she scuttled, grim as a witch in La Fontaine who has to learn the lesson we all must learn: Reality is always sterner than pleasures of the nighttime burner.

The Eiffel Tower erected itself in my head, we couldn’t find the lifts, climbed the stairs. Of course there were fireworks. We stared at each other, rare exhibits in the Louvre — you licked my Mona Lisa smile right off. Of course we were both in imaginary Chanel. We drank warm cider and ate pancakes, yours flambéed. I got drunk, my tights laddered on both legs. Of course we experienced tachycardia at the Moulin Rouge. Our hotel, a boxed macaron on a navy boulevard — we spun around in the dark outside, rain-dizzy. Of course we slept at the Ritz. Our little room tucked into the corner, a pink pocket you slipped into that night. Of course our fingers hunted for change. In the mirrored elevator I couldn’t meet your eye, I crushed you into the laminated sample menu and died. Of course it was only la petite mort.

Because anyone sitting still attracts desire, Even this will not be given you, the park In June, the silence of a bench at eleven o’clock On a Monday morning, or four on a Thursday afternoon. Someone will drift toward you, unattached And lonely. The spell will be broken, the wrong word said. It is cool, but there is no death in the few token leaves That must have come down last night, in the rain that freshened, The tree-smell that remains. For this season there is no name, Not summer, and none of the months of the year— A something inside you. Search your mind For the green arboriferous Word the boys and girls swing out of Like a tree, and the lovers On the grass in tantric mode, in an ecstasy Of untouching, and the human buddhas, legs infolded, reading. Branches, sheer translucent leaves— You would die to get under them forever, if it were given you, The park, on this, a day like any other day, And not the knowledge of everyone ever met Who will come upon you, sooner or later, If only you stay here. No, not people, or the walkways Made in another century, or the murmur of the great city Everywhere in the distance, but this breathing-space Where the void no longer terrible But to be relaxed in, the depressions Which anyway here are mild, incoming from the west, Slow-acting, chronic, lifelong not acute Are there to be sat through, waited out On a damp bench, as a man sweeps up around you And the sun comes out in real time, stealing over the ground.

Make them say yes before you even ask, L’essence de charme,c’est ça. The mind’s a damsel Locked in a tower with her fathom of   hair. Coax the braid and it’ll all be over. The rooms are plain where I am interviewed, Abstract and clinical, and so I glory Like a corpse plant, perfume the marble-faced With the reek and prodigy of my tomorrows. Dying is so boring as the soul Rummages the liquidation sale For a final bargain — But time outbids all comers, and we die Expensively in Princess Margaret Who was herself once so beautiful.

While spoon-feeding him with one hand she holds his hand with her other hand, or rather lets it rest on top of his, which is permanently clenched shut. When he turns his head away, she reaches around and puts in the spoonful blind. He will not accept the next morsel until he has completely chewed this one. His bright squint tells her he finds the shrimp she has just put in delicious. Next to the voice and touch of those we love, food may be our last pleasure on earth— a man on death row takes his T-bone in small bites and swishes each sip of the jug wine around in his mouth, tomorrow will be too late for them to jolt this supper out of him. She strokes his head very slowly, as if to cheer up each separate discomfited hair sticking up from its root in his stricken brain. Standing behind him, she presses her cheek to his, kisses his jowl, and his eyes seem to stop seeing and do nothing but emit light. Could heaven be a time, after we are dead, of remembering the knowledge flesh had from flesh? The flesh of his face is hard, perhaps from years spent facing down others until they fell back, and harder from years of being himself faced down and falling back in his turn, and harder still from all the while frowning and beaming and worrying and shouting and probably letting go in rages. His face softens into a kind of quizzical wince, as if one of the other animals were working at getting the knack of the human smile. When picking up a cookie he uses both thumbtips to grip it and push it against an index finger to secure it so that he can lift it. She takes him then to the bathroom, where she lowers his pants and removes the wet diaper and holds the spout of the bottle to his old penis until he pisses all he can, then puts on the fresh diaper and pulls up his pants. When they come out, she is facing him, walking backwards in front of him and holding his hands, pulling him when he stops, reminding him to step when he forgets and starts to pitch forward. She is leading her old father into the future as far as they can go, and she is walking him back into her childhood, where she stood in bare feet on the toes of his shoes and they foxtrotted on this same rug. I watch them closely: she could be teaching him the last steps that one day she may teach me. At this moment, he glints and shines, as if it will be only a small dislocation for him to pass from this paradise into the next.

Parks and ponds are good by day; I do not delight In black acres of the night, Nor my unseasoned step disturbs The sleeps of trees or dreams of herbs.

(excerpt) Now welcome, somer, with thy sonne softe, That hast this wintres wedres overshake, And driven away the longe nyghtes blake! Saynt Valentyn, that art ful hy on-lofte, Thus syngen smale foules for thy sake: Now welcome, somer, with thy sonne softe, That hast this wintres wedres overshake. Wel han they cause for to gladen ofte, Sith ech of hem recovered hath hys make; Ful blissful mowe they synge when they wake: Now welcome, somer, with thy sonne softe That hast this wintres wedres overshake And driven away the longe nyghtes blake!

Parmi beaucoup de poèmes Il y en avait un Dont je ne parvenais pas à me souvenir Sinon que je l'avais composé Autrefois En descendant cette rue Du côté des numéros pairs de cette rue Baignée d'une matinée limpide Une rue de petites boutiques persistantes Entre la Seine sinistrée et l'hôpital Un poème écrit avec mes pieds Comme je compose toujours les poèmes En silence et dans ma tête et en marchant Mais je ne me souviens de rien Que de la rue de la lumière et du hasard Qui avait fait entrer dans ce poème Le mot "respect" Que je n'ai pas l'habitude de faire vibrer Dans les pages mentales de la poésie Au-delà de lui il n'y a rien Et ce mot ce mot qui ne bouge pas Atteste la cessation de la rue Comme un arbre oublié de l'espace Among Many Poems Among many poems There was one Which I couldn't remember Except having made it up Long ago While going down that street On the even-numbered side of that street Bathed in a limpid morning A street of little shops still lasting Between the hospital and the wounded Seine A poem written with my feet As I always make up my poems In silence and in my head while walking But I remember nothing Except the street the light and the chance That had caused the entry in the poem Of the word "respect" That I don't usually set resounding In poetry's mental pages Beyond it there is nothing And this word this unmoving word Awaits the ending of the street Like a tree space has forgotten