you turn dark. So much had I wanted to come

to the country; the white wash, the dusty roads,

the stone houses, verdant fields, yet the land

five thick: the peach, the blue, the yellow, more.

They are not enough.

Both of us thinking the same thing…

Yet still the clock chimes faithful…

As I stood still, the man from Senegal held

my finger and tied the thread, a trick.

What would the Magot think of this?

The father speaking French, me pigeon

bald a sinner. I kneeled, confessed as best

as I cold using all the words I knew – the hot

Write something new, and I do. Two tall tapers burn,

lit and bright. The church is dark save for ours &

where people ‘spoke feverishly’ you tell me

as they drank their Pastis or their whiskey

or whatever was fashionable at the time and

The old neighborhood –

rue Mazarine

with its old ghosts and haunts,

still yours, now mine

Greyed and feathered with your funny distinct walk.

I’d recognize you anywhere. In you there are algorithms,

things others do not see. The x. the y. z. of your language.

But have they occupied it. Really taken it all in

and noticed the verdant green of the curtain swag and pull

never undone, the milky white soft silk of the curtain, how it

filters the Paris light and all the sounds of the city as it unfolds

Heart-shaped in reverse. I dress in a pair of ivory

poppy panties, all lace and finery, Paris bought. You know

this is for you. This kiss is a kiss I will remember.

Oh how she wishes! In my shine she is eclipsed as sometimes

I may be too, yet never am I cancelled out. Always I return,

midday unexpected.

You do not see it – not yet anyway.

It is my opposite, my alter.

I am the light to her dark.