Telling our story is . . . painful as anything
I’ve ever done. More painful than. A lapse
Of time so long and I’d assumed, wrongly,

Because dusk comes in not long
after 5 o’clock in Chelsea
and lamps come to life, a gold

Entering a cave, or stepping outside at night,
artificial blindness, temporary
but absolute. And if I lost sight,

An emptied wineglass
White windows reflect in
Billowing like sails.

Posters of Juliette Greco, the Eiffel
Tower. A good French bistro in the Village,
Its cuisine by some oversight not yet
Widely known; all the more murmured over

No one but the prodigal returns.
Extravagance, the same as parsimony,
disguised a bent for pillaging oneself?

Unwrap the message hidden in a wound
Or a word: a branching spray of avowals, cut.

Beginning with a fundamental, which
Sounds tonic depths, then reasons up from there,
The will to truth parts company with prayer

Gently summoned, Joseph came. My robe lay open. And?
   He shut his eyes!

Oh, not that you don’t smile: in paint, you do.
How often pranks and cracks paid off the gloom!