Michel, Even Ours

All in the coldness of your ways
You smooth over your wartime journals
and photographs
As I glance out of the window
The clear sky gives way to Alps

I’d rather be down in the thick
retracing Hannibal or partisans
arriving at improbable villages
On the seat in light rests a red hat
and a Greek newspaper of
One of those windswept curators
of Turkish baths of the air,
aspired poets — she briskly sits
crossing her legs and pulling the curtain shut.
Then –

In the town the man asked me sincerely
if Santa Lucia came last night.
I looked to the frosty street without
saying a word (eyes transfixed in
sudden atmospheres), left
the coffee behind
Out into the gray cold I sought a
place to die, crushed by the weight
of his history —
Because history weighs, Michel, even
ours.

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