“Parisian Chatter”


I remember her hair
sitting drops of velour
that almost took the suburbs
by surprise
time flashed much, badly out there
we barely stood there in sad gallery
of lucky yesterdays, drunk on
eyes & sweets, did they ever kind of matter?
I looked in my brother’s face
old artistic freshness
behind its chill
his furious state of love
hid in fellow ghastly light
to that birth I took joys in finding
materials, everywhere – flexible
quite livable then, she laughed: “joy sells”
but not in that bored society
which Paris have you been to?
in your empty compartment the subtle black
wrote round modern poems
in young hands, on with the play – not some old
kind of everything, down back below
accustomed to her touch
I remembered all who took town
by traveling
she & her girl who presented that
post-human row of beautiful heads
are they good or had & what makes you draw
marble your minutes instead
my brother’s chill walks
where unexpectedness rocks him
beside his milk
to sleep
that’s all he’s having these days
& but a dark meadow woman
he has no company
moon misses him
but it is now only
his pale daughter’s hair I mentioned before
glowing in the static

Copyright © 2012 by A.J. Kaufmann. All rights reserved.