The use of our conversation
Was like a missed location on a map
Yet it lingers with no reserve
Like the smell of three-day-old fish.
Cigarette butts and empty paper cups
That the difference between
Concrete, macadam and tarmac
Is small, unless you are the architect.
In French the pavement runs linear and
Seems to have no end
In Gaelic the words screech
Upon the wind
And can return at their convenience.
The profile of poetry is both
Luminescent in twilight
And obscene and for sale.
There is no guarantee.
But I want no mindless cheap charity.
As for our conversation:
La jeune fille n'ecoute pas
Les vieux hommes demanderons l'heure.
Et qui est l'hiver
Quand nous sommes le printemp?