When we return I’ll type these up.
I’ll do this because I am a documentarian.
Because I do not remember, yet remember everything…
For instance, I will recall details like:
The girl with giant breasts and brassy hair who just passed by.
How at that precise moment you looked out the window.
How earlier you said, In Paris people look .
It won’t matter. I’m capable of letting go. No.
Of filtering; of seeing only the best. Or the worst,
it depends on the swing: the up or the down.
So when we get home and I type these up
I will leave out the details that to me have no meaning,
because all I want to remember is this moment right now.
The two beer on the table; the red pack of Gauloises, La Poste.Fr
that passes by, yellow and mellow, how the driver
has a cigarette, lip dangling and cool.
How you wear the white oxford that once I posed in
wearing nothing and I tell you I was beautiful,
becoming, no ~ sexy, sublime. Anything to be close.
Your Blenheim, the Metro, the tickets, the beer, the light,
those pens, the criss-cross of the rails, the zebra crossing,
the conkers, the dust as we walk arm-in-arm
down the pavement of Paris .
09/19/05 , Montparnasse , Paris.fr