Two pretty children
at the station, disobeying
their mother to play trains
with the luggage, lisped without faltering
through a trellis of syllables,
their words single pearls
I caught and held awhile, my ear
softening to pearl
and even the concierge, hurling
reprimands into the phone
to the dispatcher who forgot
to send my cab, sent sound into the air
like bonbons cast from fragile
shells at the back of her throat.
In the streets, serious business
clattered by like boots on cobblestone,
or fanned into branches of air released
from any word containing “r,”
or floated from cafés with the sound of spoons
stirring sweetness into coffee’s strong bite-
and always, the lilies and tiger mums
and chrysanthemums along the curb,
the windows full of scarves,
the windows full of lamplight, drapery and fern,
the windows full of frosting and glaze, baguettes
and tangerines, tawny perfumes, meats iced
and fresh as red and white blossoms-the whole
boulevard at dusk glowed like a necklace
while Belgian chocolates
in my mouth bloomed one by one
into merci . . . oui . . . cuisine . . . chaumière . .
and always, the mother river
past me, perfectly clear
of language flowing
and too cold to swim in.
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