Keith Jarrett's Concert at Koln
fills the hotel room
in which Charley sits alone,

one story above the Paris sidewalk—
he's meditating—
for days he's done nothing

but walk the streets
watching his mind
dance the standard steps—

letting them all do their thing
and go—
stopping frequently

to watch what comes
when light falls
on the things of this world—

Looking through an old window at the rain—
Charley sees himself as a boy at his desk
drawing endless variations of a man's head—
then blindly sending his left hand
into the crowded top left drawer—
and an object—a special stone or marble—
slowly excites a reverie—
and now he stands in a room in Paris
looking at the rain, mind out on the street—
sees the truck when it's already too late—

Hours later he's still standing—
the rain has stopped—the air has lightened
and now carries the clean bite of fall—
it's a new year—he's a new man
in another country
and he doesn't speak the language—
he's been flattened—blown away—
onto the patient ground of art that saves—
and there he goes down the steps—
a small stone warming in his hand—

Dipping into Rilke's letters
Charley stopped at his praise of Proust—
wealth of discovery crammed through the pages—
Charley took down the first volume—
but he couldn't stay away from the Paris sidewalks—
especially on this bright fall afternoon—
as he walked he scanned the dark windows
lining the street with possibility—
he saw a woman at a high window
and he saw her breasts were bare—
as they made eye contact she touched them—
Charley crossed the street—
rang all the third floor bells until the buzzer sounded—
opened the door and up the steps three at a time—
he entered the hallway and a door opened—
she was naked and she took his hand—
when he left it was dusk—world
dissolved in gratitude—not a word—

This morning she's in her studio—
anger's jacket shrugged to the floor—

Charley's waking up in Paris—
no sheets on the bed—

following his drive,
he opens to a new pattern in time—

he's fallen in love with a painter
on the other side of Montmartre—

walks in a trance to her studio
picturing a Donatello—

as soon as he sees her he asks permission
to do his morning devotions to the two Marys—

she smiles, pulls up her sweater,
and he kisses her breasts very slowly—

he then sits on her bed summoning images,
as she clears a workspace upstairs—

Charley came to a new place in Paris—
that is—Charley came to
in a new place in Paris—

he let go as he stepped out
of the empty gallery
into a day before spring—

and as he let go
a minimalist image filled his mind
with new perspective—

Charley's feet left the ground—
his eyes met hers on the way up—
beyond themselves—

Charley on a bench
in the famous train station—

he watches and listens—
roar of entrance and exit—

sees her face on the platform
at the end of every line—

question repeats itself—
how do I get there from here?

always a train to take—
Charley sits on a bench—

Charley doing prostrations
on the early morning sidewalk
as the rain pours down—
tears of a blind virgin—
at first he imagines her
present in his arms—
soon there are no arms—
Charley stands up—
doesn't say he's changed—
but a smile shows in his eyes—
he goes into a café—
a woman is drinking coffee—
Charley orders coffee—

Charley orders grits
at a café on the edge of Montmartre—
after breakfast he'll return
to the same gallery again—
sidewalks and old buildings—
trees and sky—

soon he is walking with a woman—
they don't speak—
they hold hands—
they turn together
into a fully shaded street—
for lunch they share a wrap—

then she is off to her studio
to work on a bust of Camille Claudel
and he takes the cobblestone
to his room where he'll open
a cold can of root beer
and the second volume of Proust—

You might have found it amusing if you were watching—
the way we went about it, that is—
although none of us was amused at the time.

It was deadly serious business,
shoehorning our naturally drifting minds
into the stratagems of inserting tab a into slot b.

Or you might have found it odd
we didn't seek counsel
or read aloud the directions
which someone,
speaking in their defense of course,
had either forgotten
or never had in the first place
or never even thought of looking for.

But that is neither here nor there
because the main thing is
how we went about it.
Because what can be expected
from a work crew of poets
that think the proper way
of setting up a tent
is trial and error and endless revision?

That demonic pile of metal poles
like fallen jackstraws.
And oh those connecting braces.
Us seeing them as an end to themselves,
capable of doing all sorts of things
they were never intended to do.
Parsing similes and metaphors,
turning those shiny, chromed,
three-pronged angled thingies
into antlers or anchors or grappling hooks
or broken jacks some giant's child had left in the street.
And the placing of the top on the frame,
it not wanting to come tight—
those damnable Velcro things.
Roustabouts we were not.
But we did prove the old adage
that given enough monkeys and typewriters and time
the works of Shakespeare will reappear
because the infernal contraption was finally on its feet
and we were ensconced underneath,
hawking our poetry to passersby
using a karaoke machine that looked like R2D2;

and they for the most part ignoring us
or at best giving us a quick sideways glance
as if we were three-toed aliens from planet X.
And whenever someone did stop in
it would be a quick riffling of pages
as if it should take only a nanosecond
to digest a book of poems,
their faces gone bored and critical,
like they were perusing rubber chickens,
or soap powders
or, god forbid, pornography;
and then the ritual checking of the price
before replacing it on the table
and strolling away
wondering perhaps why anyone
would ever charge so much
for such an insignificant thing
as a book of poetry;
and me wanting to run after them
and put my book in their hand
and say here take it, it's free.
Just read it.
Find a quiet place and read it
and then sit down and write me a poem
and what's the harm in that?

But I didn't.

We just tidied up
and waited,
our smiles now beckoning Venus Fly Traps,
inviting another insect to stop by,
linger for a while
and maybe this time stay.

The time differences
are the easiest ones for
me to calculate

These desiccated trees yearn away
From a river that blew itself into

Obscurity. We don't go there; we can't.
Even the dandelion field has been

Reclaimed: the hard cicada deathrattle
Is all that remains of yellow. We

Must pack our suitcase (must burn this joint).
Must stop referring to myself as we.

For tying desperation to a chair
and holding it under water till it calms down,
I use your hands.

hands of absinthe, tissue, junior bible, and crumpled
For tying the knots
of twine so they may not slip
even when the body swells and refuses.

Even when it does not realize refusal is temporary
Temporary; refusal is temporary. Say it again.

Because there must come a moment
of accepting the gift, unleavened maybe,
of sugar, of wheat, of grape

without hesitation even as it is offered
from palms such as yours, and grasping and swallowing
without remembering
there ever was a time of struggle.