The Sun Pours Forth
We are in a garden among friends
And in the presence of crumbling bridges
The sun is crowned a gold medalist by wildflowers
In the center of the forest
And in the presence of crumbling bridges
I look for a clearing in the forest
In the center of the forest
By the yellow wood sorrel in the sun
I look for a clearing in the forest
A place to lie down with you
By the yellow wood sorrel in the sun
Emerging from the rain-softened grave
A place to lie down with you
In blankets of sun laid on root-rippled ground
Emerging from the rain-softened grave
A Lazarus of spring from winter rises
In blankets of sun laid on root-rippled ground
Stone upon stone upon stone make a wall
A Lazarus of spring from winter rises
And ice as water darkens the stones
Stone upon stone upon stone make a wall
A boundary of a field no longer a field
And ice as water darkens the stones
Ice freshened by the sun in early spring
A boundary of a field no longer a field
We are in a garden among friends
Ice freshened by the sun in early spring
The sun a wildflower among wildflowers.
An American in Paris
I’ve never made love in Paris, but I can’t go with you to Paris.
No flannel in Paris, only flâneurs in Paris, no baseball cap
Strolling the boulevards of Paris, no rally cap
Admitted to the Louvre,
No plaid in Paris, no backpack –
Not at my age in Paris,
Perhaps an umbrella in Paris, perhaps a past
In the Resistance or as a professor
At the Sorbonne, only semiotics in Paris,
Only the mysterious in Paris, not the obvious,
No words proclaiming your affiliations
Or your philosophy of life
Emblazoned on a T-shirt in Paris, perhaps
A flower in your lapel in Paris, a chapeau or chevalier,
Nothing casual in Paris, except a droll remark
Tossed off casually in a café, only pearls in Paris,
Only a slow drag on your Gauloises, perhaps
A hint of the disreputable in Paris, like a jewel thief,
Or a smuggler of arms,
Not the McDonald’s on the Avenue des Champs-Élysées,
Even the gardens grow impeccably formal in Paris,
Like a tie clip adorned with the fleur-de-lis,
No English in Paris, only your fluent French, your
Je m’appelle Etienne, your je suis la page, je suis la plage,
Your écoute et répète,
Je suis la page, je suis la plage.
I am the page in Paris,
I am the beach in Paris, I am a pigeon
Perched on Apollinaire’s grave, no Holiday Inn
In Paris, make our reservation at the Hotel d’Angleterre
In Paris, in one arrondissement or another in Paris,
All errors of pronunciation belong to me in Paris,
Nothing gauche or outré in Paris,
Listen and repeat:
I’ve never made love in Paris, but I can’t go with you to Paris,
No strolling through the Tuileries,
As the peloton speeds by
In Paris.
