There was nothing outstanding about it
within the grand scheme of town: the crumbling staircase,
the house with oversize, archaic-looking keys.
Bare afternoons with the person from the medieval metropolis,
its winding stone paths, double-walled fortress.
I walked via the rain to the American Bar,
enthusiastic about the album he beloved, the story he advised
about his father. The best way the pillowcase clung
to the odor of his hair, how we at all times took turns
leaving. A detour via Tuileries, via the grid
of flowering timber, touching the knobbly bronze statue.
It’s like I’ve a gap in my pocket—I preserve
discovering love then dropping it once more. I finish most tales
with an apology: I’m sorry this isn’t a really fascinating story,
however possibly it’s going someplace. Ringing bells in a church
older than my nation. A boulevardier and a dish
of peanuts. Contemporary mint, bartenders in white jackets.
