Ode to Rennes

Ode to Rennes

You of

twisted

roads,

secrets,

stone,

phone wires,

laundry lines,

statues

green and crumbling,

blue number signs,

old faded doorways,

metal balconies

and black aching trees.

How can I understand you,

the way you hold cities

and people,

in your delicate,

skeletal hands?

The way your monuments

rest in the hard,

ancient

hearts

of your people,

passing within each other

like shadows:

buses

and cigarettes at night.

The freedom of the dark cold sea,

filling them--

drinking to feel.

I cannot understand

these barren emotions,

the way the smoky clouds,

and desolate trees

blend days together,

people together,

into brown and black.

You,

who carves me at sleep

into solitude

and questions.

The Ghettos

The Ghettos

Paris is ruins here,

the houses

balancing on each other,

wires running to nowhere.

The Métro

stops

and goes

releasing the smoke

that they feed on,

watched by the city lights.

She traces her fingers on the windows

as she rides home

watching for the old man

on the corner

feeding the pigeons.

Her only solace

in this night city

full of fountains

with empty promises;

that he every morning,

trembling like a scarecrow,

crumbles the bread for the birds,

life knotted in his old hands.

Bordeaux to Biarritz

Bordeaux to Biarritz

I am chasing these trains and clouds

like little kids do,

the fright of loosing something in the distance,

bird tails,

sunlight,

traces of sky,

people.

Clouds are like the ghostly tails of gold fish

lingering-

caught fingerprints on the glass,

waving transparent

against the stillness of the sky,

and the carcasses of old citrons

lie abandoned like the husks

of cicadas in summer.

Roads meet and diverge

and tunnels give way to

scattering swallows,

as I continue chasing:

these woven phone lines,

these empty train stations,

until the train breaks off,

and I stare out the back door

at the passing tracks.

Train to Paris

Train to Paris

It was winter before I found you-

the shadows of white sky, sleeping fields,

and the phantoms of trees:

a passing train

of tired people,

two little boys sharing a seat

while their parents cling to the bars

and each others eyes,

with a loneliness.

The way the mother looks at her two sons

and up to greet her husband,

as if all this was worth it,

that they have given it all up.