DAY ONE


A slice of melon
taken into a voyage
to the moon
as Yves Tanguy laughs
into a colossal shadow
of the Seine
on a last July afternoon
remembers his age
with a taste of time
on days of memory
forgetting the doom
from a windy gust
of rain on the knoll
reading Proust
until the shadows
pass the liquid silence
of calcified space
in tolling bells by carousels
wakes his horizon noon
in flawed polished mirrors
birds scrape the sky
yet we cannot escape
a solitude of skin.