Friday, May 9, 2014

A Dorothea Lasky Poem

The Open Sound Of French

Even the sound of French is open
And the children find me very interesting to look at
It is as if I am a TV show or supper
All my pretty babies who paint the winter chests
With red and gold and green

It was on the afternoon
In the small wooden town
That I was so mired in my act of jealousy
I did not pay attention
To the beauty of the dark church in front of me

And now you ask me
To meet you in a park after dark
Well it is too late too late
I am already flying


1 comment:

  1. The international reader might pick up a faint ressonance of this in Apollinaire's "Le Pont Mirabeau". I did almost immediately. Then again, it was dark, maybe I was just leaping to conclus...connections.