Robert Verdon, #14, morning in Paris

The brother-and-sister plane trees

brush at the end of the path

in the glass echo

of the gilt mirror

lit up with love;

persistent as a patina, or, an

impetuous swan on a jam tart,

floured with the cooking-apple sheen of

morning.

Dressing for evening and its hedgehog brow of quills,

for meaning, spreading a quilted cloud,

as a setting day-moon flops onto the futon bed

with a dull thud,

we sip green tea through grimy klaxons

and umbrellas in Java (as the streets fill),

sensible and saffron as well-tilled marigolds;

eyeing an unread shelf of Wallace Stevens, and

the moon bowling through a tunnel of sandy legs

like a medicine ball.