Where were we bent, having trekked
all night from what place?
Now it escapes me. But in medias res,
between-trains, layover homelessness,
we found ourselves in Paris…Paris!
What luxe et volupte to wander
streets gemmed with market stalls
perfumed by a souks-worth of all
until, at the Jardin des Plantes, we wil-
ted onto a bench, to slowly unfurl
in the sun. Leaf negatives
swam through my lids, your shoulder
bolstered my cheek, passersby murmured
buffed smooth by the fountain’s tumblers. No souvenir,
nothing to carry away but those hours.
V. Penlope Pelizzon
Hours first appeared in first appeared in The Southeast Review 23.1 (2004). Reprinted in Poetry 30 (Mammoth Press, 2005).
Poem, copyright © 2004 by V. Penlope Pelizzon
Appearing on From the Fishouse with permission
Audio file, copyright © 2005, From the Fishouse