And the Time Is: Poems, 1958-2013

The Next Time You Were There

41 The Next Time You Were There After Paris, every city’s just another town. Elephants could roam the Metro, Marly’s horses could invade the Tuileries, wishbone arches on the Seine could shatter under traffic, and Parisians could refuse to estivate in August . . . Appearing every day in Paris would be Haussmann’s Paris still. Abroad, you’d like to die the way you live in Paris—telescoping four days into three, believing that your best is just ahead, protesting that you need more time, more time, protesting to the end. And past the end . . . But you exaggerate. This capital you share with France is just another web—somewhere to breathe and board and be. You bring there what you are, and what you are is nowhere any different. This makes the Trocadero just a penny’s patch of grass, the Place de la Concorde a wide and spindled planisphere, and St. Germaine-des-Pres another church. Weathering your dreams, bronze Paris of the doorknobs 42 turns into the turning stage called here that stays the same as everywhere right now. On that quick stage a man keeps happening. From Paris to Paris to Paris, the only life he knows is anywhere and always coming true. . . . His name is you. ...