The clouds are dark tonight, Paris,
as i contemplate you from two thousand
miles away. what colour your eyes? have the spirits
finally fled your yellow photographs?
will i come to see you buried under a million frozen
vegetable plastic bags beneath a perfect
sky of luminous tubes?
i have read much, heard much,
and most of it turns out to be false.
most of myself,
most of the time,
too.

I have come to realize, Paris, i don't want you
don't want anything
but i'm dreaming of it all.
where you are i don't know. as for me,
i can see myself sitting on that dusty shelf
where my notebook lies unused now at night
waiting for someone better
to come along.