YVES BONNEFOY'S NIGHT

In a tiny Parisian bookstall
mirrored by Saturday visitors
a poet brushes by a long silence
looking on high walls
by corridors stacked with verse
with stares for poet precursors
of a boy's visionary ancestors
in an gossamer eye light
of Baudelaire and Poe
love notes fall
from above consummate shelves
opening a roomful of streaming
Bonnefoy's smoldering words
as the boy waits to receive
his voice in my inner consciousness
from budding ideas in leafs
of language spaces
at an equivocal exhibition
as I guide my hand through
to trace from darkness to choose
one slim volume's leaves
in a corner of a used bookstore
feeling completely unsure
as he leaves the bench
in a perusal of choosing
phrases in mind
intoxicated by your intimacy
of vocal lyrical verse
near my unsuited sleeves
to share a lifelong encounter
engaged with his universal spirit
purchasing to share an afternoon
in the chapters of a poet's
marooned labeled connection
in the shape of your French
amid the reinvented wounds
from a hidden fabled collection
worn as a bandage in mine.