V

Les Boutons D'or

Vines grow up the impression of walls
stucco white and twinkling with beads of light
your eyes of stars and blackest sky kiss the night
the arc of time and the old house of dew alive
your lips reflecting the blossom of endless white bulbs
the trees have been here for hundreds of years
but you and I are here tonight an ocean and see away
from home     brush strokes paint the story of your smile
a memory of many pasts, the canvas over my heart

IV

the Vegetable Alibi

It looked like my rucksack
     in an alleyway
                             but in Gap, France
mildewed green canvas
   hand sewn patches

it slouched against a medieval stonewall

two Provencal cops hitch up their
heavy lead pants
                            interrogating the
owner of the bag about a head of lettuce
in his hands
                    how could he be eating such
valuable produce?
                              was it stolen?
your tattoos were backed by the Cote dAzur

they were here to give you
a hard time     sadly

your lettuce had an alibi
the market next door vouched for your
ownership

the cops tugged on their bullet proof
detective skill, 'don't be here when we get back,'

they said,

                 merci
you pulled sadly at your beard
to the rhythm of their footsteps     hiked
bag onto shoulder
its empty stomach sagging--

    c'est bon c'est bon c'est bon 

--to forage for another stretch of pavement
         in another sunless alley
in this decayed

somewhere

III

the Med. at noon

After eating sardines
at a cafe along the beach--
   
     the salty breath
of the sea
the salty fish scales
     fish bones
old world bones float on

--dip into
gentle rolling waves
a sea somewhat thicker and heavy
after lunch
                  lurching blue waves
saltier than I would have
imagined

II

Alps

What of me is part of this old world?
     sleeping
beside me in the car
                                 my wife
she is growing
    inside her
beside me
                 my son is growing

there is not a piece of me here
these mountains are strangers
they have lost me long ago

my ancestors
divorced you

I go forward through your passes
     they are like scarred tombs
   
 crossing the Alps I see
I am something new

even with your stony ancient glare
you could not know
me

Some poems from France I

Taking a shit

the first thing I did
as an

American in
France

umfiction

I have been sick
for over a week

the news tells me I have coronavirus

CoviD-19 it talks to me
all hours of the day

under order
I am home watching it talk

24 hours a day     I have congestion
that has left my throat and
found its way into
my nasal cavity

MSNBC has me waiting
for chest pain with every cough

when the narrative find me
I will be ready

I have been sick
for over a week

best case scenario
I will be able to blog
about my quarantine
in the new york times

Foreclosure

NOw
          there is no where to go

the clouds reflect our prison
like crumbled
                       aluminum foil

we cannot chew through
this metallic fog
                           the sparks
make lightning of our
teeth
         that chase the squirrels
away
         hidden beneath the earth
the seed is more important
than the disease
                         
                           noW yellow
daffodils droop over rotted
leaves
            coughing into graves
of potted earth
                         there is a distance
unassailable in our future

for the spring cannot
out wait the
rain