By Jean Kent
Today a suede summer evening comes back to visit
the brie-creamy buildings behind
above the stirred-green sleep of the Seine.
Although already dusk in dark overcoats
has been stalking the foreign lovers,
today a suede summer evening comes back.
Today walking out their steps in time
no longer annoy
twilight’s soft nap. On Pont St-Louis
that man whose mist of music
swirls at twilight from his fingers
is running them again lightly rippling the air
over a little world of goblet-trapped lakes.
Sighs dropped into the water are silvering
scars dissolving absolved
as all the strolling city stops
grave as deer
in a pale, still forest of stone
accepting for one somnambulent hour
‘Plaisir d’Amour’ ―
a faint, tender swoon
fingered out carefully over glass.