parisian life - marjorie evasco After Juan Luna, 1892

Every beginning
Is only a sequel, after all...
-W. Szymborska

What would they make of me
In his painting, alone at dusk,
Waiting in a café in Paris?

Perhaps one of them will peer close enough
To catch the hint of absinthe in my breath,
And I could whisper: There is a street

Going south to an abandoned train station
Where many stories have left their remorse
On the wrought-iron benches. I could say

There is a river on whose banks you could
Walk ten miles to a village where the mime
And the fool danced a story like a duel:

There once was a woman and a man
Struck dumb by roses, pursued by lightning.
They were brought to their knees by bees.

The woman sits here, alone in a café
At dusk in Paris, not in hope nor in regret,
But in time. As if every moment now

Could be the beginning of a different story.


woohoo, high chair is back. :-)
the rhythm in this poem is perfume.  ¶ 3/02/2005 11:39:00 PM