It is cold and I am sleepy. A moonless sky shines above our head, a slow sun climbing its way up from down deep in the horizon. The smell of living trout lives in the river,
It is not enough that Maiakovski died for our sins, nor that walking down the shore he once rolled between his tongue the syllables of a roaring wave. I met the beach lifeguard.
Sometimes I believe I am still your thoughts That my eyes and their image disturb your dreams That you listen to my voice with the rattle of windchimes
Paris in the morning is silent. The cobbled streets are washed away, water & soap, to erase any trace of victory. It does not matter, victory is forever engraved in hearts & minds.
I left home years ago, took a ferry south from Dover to Calais, ended up in Paris doing some thinking and some writing. The warmer weather suited me well. I could let dry my sweater,