FIVE III

along the brittle treacherous bright streets
of memeory comes my heart,singing like
an idiot,whispering like a drunken man

who(at a certain corner,suddenly)meets
the tall policeman of my mind.
                                awake
being not asleep,elsewhere our dreams began
which now are folded:but the year completes
his life as a forgotten prisoner

—“Ici?”—“Ah non,mon cheri;il fait trop froid”—
they are gone:along these gardens moves a wind bringing
rain and leaves,filling the air with fear
and sweetness....pauses.   (Halfwhispering....halfsinging

stirs the always smiling chevaux de bois)

when you were in Paris we met here