mostly pony-tales and fairy-tails
A Fall Day at Notre-Dame
It is fall that I remember myself, me
as oblivious as I once was, or another fall time,
from the wall holes rose Piazzolla’s fugues.
I recall the dinnertime with the anonymous patron of my poetry.
This is the fifth year your bruised-eyed daughter
Batters a song for you in an alien language.
My mother fled to the Sweet South to bathe her yellow skin in the exotic sun