there is never any end to paris
or to the naked girls, winding at your window.
i end up squeezing the red grapes from your cheeks
after midnight, near st michel, 
tearing up your every part
like an envelop of letters;
like a sentence hidden inside that 
i’ve waited for all my life. 

your eyes are so green,
one of your parents must have been a 
traffic light. we’re both self centered-
so the world revolves around us at the same speed.
this morning my sheets were covered in pollen, 
or tumbleweed, because we turned and tossed
so much in the night that there came
nebulae in your hair.

there is a foolishness beyond 
this cycle of wine water, honey
and liberal gentleness. 
he who knows he is a fool
is no great fool, they say. 
i bow at the greatness of fools
long past, quixotic acts before
they were shown the mirror.

I remember 
crying into mirrors when i was less then ten, 
thinking that it was the worst injustice.
even now, i wish for such acts that send me
above this tiptoeing at midnight
among french floor boards.
i bet you all of my life
that i can swim in the seine tonight and survive it.

i was made for the water 
such endless dreaming and praying.