PARIS, 1999

November's morning
leaves you by the Seine
you suddenly remember
Watteau in the rain
flowing bird wings
surrounding his shadow
in a weathered radiance
from the white rooms
of feathers passing
outside museum windows
among my iodine of poems
on an embarrassed day
for a small circle
of Paris friends,
a desolate art book
seems like an older century
before the war
a book store
opens on a busy street
in a fin de siecle lore,
citizen,why pretend
we want more.