Baudelaire

Life is a long dream.

—schopenhauer

1.Morning shivers along the SeineIn its green robes and thenYou walk into the Hotel Lauzun,High on sex, hashish perhaps, oneMore day, awake at 4:00 am. You couldNot sleep; cries in the woodSifted the leaves. The gasps of the dyingFell with your silk scarf. WaitingFor your life to fall on you,Eighteen months you were the toast of Paris,One of the “rich crazies”:Bouzingos. Hoarding a cacheOf first editions, you stuffed your roomsWith furniture, debts, the moment’s ashBurning in your fire. Now above the tombsAnd catacombs of France, you roll free,Mon coeur mis à nu, indeed, indeed.

2.Some things we dream together:A kiosk’s tattered day-old news,Cold dawns, steam from the riverHugging the quay, a bank of yews.You saw owls there red-eyed with wisdom,Or was it merely absinthe, after all, Behind each wide-eyed stare? Now the humOf traffic rattles past my stall,A narrow table on the Place de la MadeleineFacing the imitation, cramped ParthenonStuffed with Catholic icons. The SeineIs polluted and the stones of Paris runWith soap instead of blood. Each morningMy wife, son, and daughter follow me,Wide-eyed with wonder at everythingBecause it has the look of history.Here is where heads rolled, hereYou asked the crowd to turn its rageUpon Aupick, your stepfather. We steerOur way around the holy relics. The ageOf the tourist has arrived. By threeMy family lies exhausted in our rooms.“The past is dead. Long live the past.”My waiter nods. I order double gins.