The still, mournful quietude
of a rainy winters day in Bordeaux
makes way for the loneliest Friday night
I can remember.
The Basilica, regal and silent, towers alongside
stone chimneys over the bridge Pont de Pierre
that crosses Le Garonne.
Light glimmers on the stone roues glazed with fresh rain,
all of it gently haunted by something I cannot place.
I make a call to New Mexico, where its sunny
and a different kind of melancholy.
The girl on the other end of the phone
wants to escape too.
I think of Paris and all its divine distraction.
A blonde guru reminds me that longing is the most fertile
ground for creativity.
He watches my eyes move with thoughts.
Doucement, he whispers, his accent bulky and American like mine.