From the open door I pass daily

on the Rue des Lombards lined with lilac

bushes, I lean to the sound of a piano;

I pause with curious ears.


Athletic fingers prompt the song to spill

unwrapped to me, circling like a scarf,

holding my thoughts, catching me out of breath.


The mouth of the street swallows me, licking dust

from my yesterday, tempting my newness

to search behind the half open door with

my half open fingers.


…I move away with visions stolen.



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