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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

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