for very small moments
my life is beautiful. there is Paris
in a mason-jar,
boys on the sidewalk, rain coming
like piano jazz. the baby is crying for me,
lisping Maman Maman; he is like
his father. And we
were like staccato-ed beats: small
carnivals of mirth, small
hollows in the neck, your hands
tangled in the curtains and the covers,
the palm fronds sprouting wet
and ready from my head.
now we are ancient grand cities
built by romans
and ignored and admired by
the rutting young people.
now we shut the windows
to let the pink light come; we are
glass in a storm.
we are dying languages
only by the baby, his wailing
reminding me that I am here,
that I am not yet forgotten.