Paris

Pixabay

I have never seen a dance of brushes as pure;
Monet paints the springtime on your dress,
by the hem, a lonely autumn leaf
where you left your toe-print on —

I miss you, Paris, and your lonely moon,
and your talk of machines falling in love,
your wantless swimming under a sea of faces
where you tell me you found God.

I keep you, or, the memory of you
all these days. I treasure each word that flew
and swelled from one’s deepest recesses to
confide with a once-in-a-lifetime trust.

Paint me once more, the cyan sky
where between the clouds, a river flows.
You throw your tears to the sun once more —
you weep in color, and bless me thus.