Verlaine’s Hat

As elegant as
Verlaine’s hat –
crumpled splendid dignity
ever drunk but never gauche
Paris is the inner thigh
of someone beautiful,


A breath of summer
pheromones, and that clover
animal skin of post-love
that I still have you clinging—
your out-of-body opioid
of folded selves

and streetlights turning
into stars, planets,
the whole twisting array
of cosmic dust

stretching the Seine
from here to Berlin.
Give me back the flask, love,
this sky needs drinking.


First Published in Left Facing Bird (USA).


Paris copy

One thought on “Verlaine’s Hat

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