From the Fishouse

The last time I saw him he wore another life
with the tie I gave him in spring.

In the space between his cufflink and wine glass
I tried to collect myself—

was it Paris, or perfume on my wrists?

You don’t want to mix emotions with wine, he said.
You lose the taste.

All day I have circled the same cafés.
Women like to sing a red song no matter who’s listening.

Life could be darling, I thought during my cigarette.

We could live on devotional glances—
and take dinner in our best black, on the Champs-Élysées.