Dust from the Tuileries walks
clings to my suede boots,
but the small violet mark
on my right breast has started to fade.
I’ve watched it disappear
beneath towels and sweaters
these days that you’ve been gone.
I’ve been biting my nails,
always when I read.
I have little attention for
A Farewell to Arms,
bought together
in a Burbank bookstore.
It sat on your shelf at ease
for years, before I reclaimed it
to be read, as it should.
Toujours, l’intention
but never the completion.
I am not quite halfway through,
Expect to finish someday,
Though I can’t say when.
Fitzgerald, too, wrote things for me
to read.
He recounts days at Princeton,
and I miss my Yale lointaine —
ainsi on s’entend bien.
I find, without much looking,
myself in these texts
which have not been touched
by your hands and eyes.
How long Hemingway sat
parmi les autres
never to gain your admiration!
Perhaps once I’ve read it,
long after my violet mark fades,
you may borrow it again.
I rest meanwhile by the quais of St. Michel,
and when you see me next,
you will, je crains, be disappointed.
It’s not that I want to live
sans doute au-delà de toi
but the air here does me good.
The sun, when it shines, is sweeter
than our gold California days.
I love you more since I can keep you
without forgetting myself.
The sight of my words on a page is too
tempting to pass up.
Don’t lament the absence of your name
or, in its place, another’s.
Your presence lives in its best dress
even as I breathe in,
look down, dust off my shoes.