Wednesday, 22 May 2013

For loss, a poem in May

Paris Street, rainy day, 1877: Caillebotte

I dined at last, with
your death today.

It waited at the corner,
I tried to send it away.

Tried hard not to notice
it sidling up,

at the magazine stand,
at the bank, at the hub

of all that I did
on my way.

But there it stood,
patient as rain

looking in when I looked out,
again, again.

It took form in all that
I passed,

the happy, the first,
the indifferent, the last.

Through doors I fled and
sheltered in vain

it found me, endured,
and longed to begin.

It shivered and smiled and groaned
and grinned.

I tired, relenting,
and raised my hand:

Welcome stranger,
from a strange land

Over dinner I sighed,
then invited it in.


Paris Street, rainy day: Caillebotte

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