late july

he writes a letter to his wife, he says he loves them both. je suis désespéré et heureux. the body of a woman is too vast. the ocean glitters by endlessly: too far touch, too big to drink.

stealing roses from the parc royale while the gardeners looks the other way. small detours on the way home. cocking the thumb, raising the index to the sky, shooting holes in the moon. cinema paradiso and hagen daas after bathtub haircuts. kyra smokes out the window while i'm curled up under the table lamp with anaïs nin's journals, vol. 2. the rain taps softly on the wisteria. rooftops glitter like mirages through the old glass of the windows.


and her face turned up in a smile. or maybe a grimace. it was hot, too hot to focus on her full face, the thicket of her hair closing in on the cheeks: red, and wet. i've brought the mail. we sit at the bar on the small stool covered in velvety burgandy fabric, that is actually much softer than velvet. we sweat, and she writes postcards, while i read in le monde about how dsk's victim has come out publicly . there are nine pictures of her in various stages of upset lining the article. her story is not as thick as his wallet. the espressos are thin here, but the music is good and the mirrors flatter the cracked molding.


around the marble table: three candles, three faces, three glittering crystal glasses. three sets of three cards, three possible futures, presents, pasts. the zebra on the floor is flatter than flat. we step on him and think of the plains in africa, where all the rain comes at once.

we walk into sara on rue saint martin, she is eating apples and has just exited the library at the pompidou. chat politely. see you tonight. then buy gelatos and try on the cheapest dresses at the dirty thrift store buried on the bad end of les halles. swinging the bagfuls in time wit the steps, bord at arts et métiers and descend at parmentier. whistle short bursts at the flower shop, fifty per cent off of everything! squint up at the sky, wink at the bookman.

four figures huddled under umbrellas at parc de la villette illuminated in the shifting light of the movie screen. dans la ville blanche and other dreams of portugal. rum and cokes. the cyclists snoring in piles.