missy, missy !

I heard her, I thought
she had gone to town,

I think, on the earliest

pigeon hopped
and from the very last

moon ray, swung down
behind an old rheumatic wall

-cranky, it was! (flustered and all
to have been surprised so, wearing

but ivy and wet roses stinging)
I heard it, I thought, so

I in turn, a pen on the ear, said hello
caught a train seat pulled up by the morning

for the still sleepy city heading.
After her I shouted with my paper voice,

not a noise, I looked in the beggar’s cup,
not a hint, in all the places of choice,

not a trace, followed a glass of wine up
to its bottle and down ‘til the bottom I found…
To no branch, or scribble, or lip was she bound…
I came home, took off my shirt: missy,

in Paris, had written all over me.














Photo: Emilie SCIARLI ~ https://www.instagram.com/teddycalavera/


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