19. Dream song
At the foot of a high rise, topped by a penthouse posh with glass,
where once a tended garden was,
a plot of green, beleaguered by a bunch
by unruly bushes that hide a riot
of sparrows, now cowed into silence.

In a white dress, frilled, hair loose in the breeze,
eyes closed in tilted face,
in easy swivel to please,
she lisps a popular song,
munching a macro microphone.

Two garden gnomes are asway on the tunes, a plaster angel waves her wings and croons.
18. Sister (Paris)

Paris is an aviary. Birdy people peek,
from behind the trellis,
ironwrought in etiquette,
on Haussmann’s blocks.

They smooth their feathers behind glass, in the showroom
of a café, perched on wicker chairs,
or crouching in cubicles,
huddled in collars and conclave.

In the middle of that, my sister, you also are there, balanced in
your sway, billowing in white.
In your light, sublunary step,
you descend in the Luxembourg.

Together with the rest of spring, in the garden manned by feminine
statues, where daffodils press up
in purple, a giggle of white,
or a saffran shout of glee.
17. Epiphany
I schemed my walk for the greatest chance of running into you, a memory chase. Knowing you were the needle in the stack. By the sidewalk café’s, the weekly market, across the square, and back.
When you suddenly emerged, out of place, Epiphany. The leap of recall that flashed your face. Which I try to preserve, to catch and keep, to bake and glaze for daily use.
My impulse was to reach, cast out for you. Or to run. My words ran but did not reach. I stayed, and strayed the lines of your face. Stepped out of line, stumbling, fell still, fell in the void of a dull goodbye.
16. Generations
Long ago in a train, rumbling to school,
I watched people, crumbling
to old age,
in their thirties at least.

Inscriptions in their faces of stories untold,
inscrutable, without design,
uninvited graffiti.

All alike, indistinct, a tribe you never saw before.
The landscape
flashes by, fresh with cows
in the green.

The other day in a train, on the way to the end,
I watched people, on the way
to their beginning,
a gaggle of girls.

Smooth in limb and face. Inscrutable, no folds to hold on,
no inscription, unscratched
by stories to be told.
Indistinct, a tribe never seen.
15. New room
Time stops, and it lasts while the room opens, hesitates,
content with its emptiness.
Coolly contemplates, and remains
in itself, an animal, nestled in dust.

On the wallpaper a smear of hair
above the pale patch where a chair
blocked the sun. There must be
nail parings and wisps of hair, wiped
or wafted in cracks in the floor.

But every step outside is trod
on the dust of bones and dried blood,
hidden below sidewalk cosmetics.
And these planks also are dead life
that bear me at home, if the room permits.

Then, the miracle of the small, a pebble on the floor, compact, all by itself.
Smoothed, polished in endless rolls,
rollicks and clicks in seas of time.

Reminder of a vision, as a child: a marble of glass held up to the light,
seeing all wonders, through stained
glass windows, doors of perception.

And time resumes its pulse. The wind sweeps a branch, squeaking across the
single pane in the roof, which gives
onto the sky, and rattles the tiles.
14. Montreux
Bulging men, in blocked trousers and braces, and ladies ornate with intricate spectacles,
heave themselves down from the coach
and waddle into the Excelsior.

Tracing the steps of more distinguished generations, of Russians and British
before the first war, and settle to sigh
under cherubs and laurels, plastered.

Click of chandeliers, in the dining room, where the furniture, condescending, reflects
itself, in guilded mirrors with patches of
condensation, wincing in hurt dignity.

After dinner, I descend to the pool. A breeze of water, soft to the skin.
Heartbeat in tune with the ripple.
My splashes echo in cavernous space.

Traverse across a field of carpeted flowers, along a staircase that winds
around a lift, caged, with servants
going down, up to my suite, which

creaks with luxury, only the piping complains, a lame chair that leans to the desk.
At the window the night deepens across
the lake, and France lies totally in the dark.
13. No rocket science
A fluttering heave, an easy glide,                                    joyriding gravity.
Weave a line in the wind, dotted with tweets,
a musical score, to carry the notes
that rise and fall.

Who knows where birds go, what errand, and why, and how do they know?
No less than people do, in their stumbling,
their more clumsy heaving and falling.
Perhaps they are smarter.

The buzzards hang high on their thermic boost, always in pairs,
more loyal than men, apart together,
they spy their prey, with binocular sight,
and dive like a rocket,

a bomb with a beak, they cut up the sky. No rocket science
is needed for them, to trace their trail,
and aim at the hare, too slow to flee,
the shadow that falls.