away from his crooked floors and tall windows and curling plants and...
down that tiny street, at the end of which lay the seine...
down the quai and past the boats where i imagine the ghosts of pirates still live...
across a bridge that knows only feet, where a man in black sat playing the clarinet, which matched the sky and my insides...
and then my heel got stuck between wooden slats, and i had to look down, and then...because i was standing there, still, already, i looked up...
and there was an archway and the entrance to what was once a palace
crossed a busy street and joni started singing about a baby, born with the moon in cancer
and i stepped on each cobblestone, one at a time while she sang about crocuses and california...
another arch and the gardens with fountains where someone i loved once told me to rent a tiny sailboat...and i imagined his peter pan ghost there in black and white.
and the narrow path with trees curving up and over the length of green fence
and old men with small dogs and jogging firemen and women scowling and smoking
and in a hurry
and the grate over the bookstore windows is still down and the books stare out like little paper prisoners
maybe monday i will walk this way again.
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