Paris Winter, by Howard Altmann.
That we can breathe and not forget
our dreams entirely. In the cold sunthe warmth of timelessness. There is
panic, rest assured, so much beautystirring, I want to touch all that
contains me. We know the questionsand the light shifts without a word.
In the clouds, a philosopher’s chairrocks. In the riverbed, the buff
and lathe of stones, change glisteningpast. And from the afternoon, drops
of her monthly blood drip downthe stairs, the kitchen table, all of her
unopened bills, a cold floor that timedus. O, the ins and outs of memory
breathe, too, images at rest in the darkchambers, the gilded daylight whir
a heart’s dusting—one walkup,one post storm quiet blinking at
infinity. Who shot the moonand claimed victory in the morning?
The constellations touch down;the years collapse; the boom
and bust of love lowers the craneat dawn: in what earth, in what sky
will the soul find its keeper?
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