(for Fanny Singer)
I keep thinking about you.
Those eyes. Those wrists
twirled in the halflight
of the Union league Cafe
like fine calligraphy.
That intellect. Fierce,
in its desire for life,
like red wine on Chapel Street.
Those breasts. Peeping like
Hellenic masterpieces at the dumb,
pretentious, museum crowd,
forever fixated on free food.
Fanny, I dreamt last night
that we were somewhere in Paris,
near the Seine, holding hands
like two statuettes come to life,
learning the geography of love
in Hemingways moveable feast,
along Avenue Montague, amidst
the fake art shops and ceramic
joys of a decrepit art world.
(Have you seen the video:
"Who the Fuck is Jackson Pollock?)
There was jazz music in the air -
Sur Les Quais Du Vieux Paris by Guy
Lafette - I think, we were kissing,
Then I woke up in Norwich, Vermont
And remembered I had to attend
the opening of an art exhibition
at the Hood Museum in Dartmouth College
New Hamphire. It was raining.
Leaves of all colours were falling.
So, I crossed the Connecticut River
only in my mind, just sat there
on my bed in the loft of 90 Huntley Street
ruminating about you, listening
to the leaves and raindrops dancing
on the tiles above, wishing you
were there in my arms, your head on my chest,
your hair on my breast, your soft,
eloquent, voice pouring your love
and other sweet nothings into my ears
like a slow obstinate honey.