Serious, yes, head-tipped, pouted lips sealed, parted slightly

ripe for young kisses, near misses.

All those girls in silks with their

long stick-like legs, how easily

then they fall to you - American

and foreign; no longer in navite

land yet so easily passable.

Accent impeccable. All style, baby.

All style and flash.

You shed pieces of yourself without knowing,

sowing seed uncaring where it goes,

never once hearing the bleating of any child,

thank god. Someone must have loved you.

Surely looked over that shoulder, got your back.

You trace a route through the Jardin Luxembourg,

a trail, traces of skin and hair, in Paris

see everywhere. This is what the young do.

It is the indiscretion of youth, this

and the joy in the moment you believe

that none of this will ever end and that

this moment will last forever.

It is the emotion of the emotive.

The selfishness of selfhood that forgets

all that's been taught and reverts

to the primal, leading lovers to your

garret, to that high-high room

never once thinking of your fiance

at home; of anyone but you. Did they

kneel? Did they pray before you, knees

red, their Roman god, olive-skinned

a statue, your perfect Roman profile.

Did you hear in that moment the click

of your own heart, how the valve caught

on the moment and sent the blood

flowing backward down to rue, all

the way to the Champs Elysees .

By Sadi Ranson-Polizzotti

______________________________________________

Paris Visa Redux by Shark

I can tell from the photo:
Once you were young.

(You've sloughed off skin cells,
hair and hours --
dropped them from your body
like a pile of marble in Rodin's room.
You were bronze, ivory --
a champagne glass of confidence and hormones.

Those are gone now

lost by the lens
of a long slow life.)

***
I can tell from the photo:
Once you were alone --
a fresh beret
left by the door,
a poem
on a cafe napkin,
unspoken words on the champs d elysee.

***

I can tell from the photo:
Once you were sad.

Forget your old seeds,
the planting, the sifting, the sowing.
That picture is enough for me.

But it was a young sadness --
trying to be serious
when you didn't really know
JUST
HOW
SERIOUS
Life Can Be.
That would come later.
When you met me.

photo: photobooth, paris.

by Mark Caywood