We made love before breakfast, window wide open,
chocolate gateau still on your lips. On my tongue,
the sweet of your flesh. Still hungry, we came
then crossed nine bridges to reach the Musee d'Orsay.
March is always an easy month: short lines, no waiting;
we entered effortlessly. The window washer's face
passed back and forth in shadow. From behind the clock
we could see everything - no need for tricks,
no sleight of hand. Not hiding, we touched openly,
feeling dizzy, almost falling. Your heart or mine?
Renoir's girls blushed beneath their crinolines, my nipples
grew marble pink, hard as door knobs, small levers.
You are all skin and bone, wandering hands. All at once,
going nowhere, the statues parade their flesh in full
where the tracks used to stand. I want you again.
Nine bridges, barely undressed and back to bed. I love you
in English, pidgin French. Light like Van Gogh's eyes
fades to deep outside. Starry skies tonight. In sudden
a train's brakes squeal across the ceiling: last call, last
keep moving, time to get off, stop moving. Stop. Don't stop.
If you've any comments on her poems, Penny
Greenwell would be pleased to hear