WHEN PROUST'S TIME

When Proust's time

drifts by as a madaleine

and he softly lifts
a croissant in green tea
from the back of the pantry
or a coffee latte in cups
waking up constantly
as a nomad
from the "Plaine Monceau"
in a constant insomniac's dream
back at the country from hours
of another night and day
staying out of the rain
by hearing and sight reading
a Gregorian chant
in his half waking out
from his slumber

that now seems as an eternity

watching the dusty
blanket covering
of a laughing night snow
melt into icicles on the grounds

outside your home

he manifests a desire
to cut loose
and socialize in a bar
the one with the golden dome
and a noose for customers
as he hid in the corners
of the forbidden shut in doors
wanting take off
his pajama's robe and belt

as he paces the floor
willing only to get up

in search from the dictionary
for the library's right words

to describe the church
on Sunday at delightful Combray

now realizing it is almost four
in the early morning
as he smelt the lemon flowers
amid many birds and sparrows
who sing quietly over branches
in the narrow geranium garden

over the white leafy branches

by corridors of the Evergreen
as her branches are covering
the contrary forms of icicles

at the beginning of first light

before awesome hours ripen
and the storm is over

in the rolling luminous sun

was coming through as shadows

from the Venetian blinds

as you're closing the window
loaded with dew and frost
always walking in your hallways

feeling lost in new epiphanies
his mind has set loosed
to slowly compose
and review his night's notes
revealing a melancholy poet

yet a bit lyrical yet gloomy
in he opens
his wide spectrum
of confessed marginalized notes
on this early morning's
listening continuum
listening in his mind
to a piano sonata of Chopin
and thinking
of Saint -Saens' melody
in "The Swan"
from his "Organ Symphony"
number 3 in D minor
feeling troubled
as it dawns on him

it's a new hour
taking a few chances

as he stumbles out 

of his daybed slumber

reading what he wrote

warming up by the candles
near the thin yellow margins
out of "Remembrances
of Things Past"
as he drink a lemon juice
when he pictures the pigment
in his dry skin
of a still life portrait of himself
by Jacques-Emile Blanche
as his voice is frozen
by the cracking fireplace
as he at last puts on
the thick blue Christmas
sweater this December
given  by your late grandmother
who gave it to you
yet thinking of his loving loss
as he hears her calming voice
and of Baudelaire's "Albatross"
as he make sad gestures
over the large drawing-
room mirror undressing
and feeling a bit weightless
and in his quickened mind
falling down museum steps
in another catastrophe
of a introspective imagination
in putting up a Renoir tapestry
of retrospective paintings
visiting his masterpiece
"The Lace Maker"
at the Louvre's Paris gallery
together with thoughts
of Vermeer
as he slowly undresses again
feeling as a manikin
by the dark screens
of his boudoir photos
taking out his love letters
in uncovered business
of his betters
out of the bureau
knowing if he were
to make a late fainting scene
there will be more antics
from this passenger of art
feeling as a stranger to himself
spilling out an angry
and obscene scene
of an adolescent's delirium
in a constant drama
from an auditorium's
worst ranting nightmare
in more of a histrionic scream
as you whisper curses
listening to an recurring
auspicious theme
from a Rameau's organ sonata
number 3 in D minor
as you wish for a bicycle
to labor by the home harbor
on a novel memoir of the sea
from the last winding wave
in a span of your own
present company
Proust's makes yet another
secret vow to behave.