FIVE
III
along the brittle treacherous bright streets
of memory 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.
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
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