how you felt on the last day flying back from Paris and, high above the cloud cover, pursuing the sunset into an endless horizon; or even before, the overnight coach along the Riviera and sleepless, staring through diaphanous curtains at glowing raindrops of headlights melting.
is this how you will remember it, months afterwards and dreaming, when all the details have left you and only that yawning veil stays to frighten you, like everything else in your life worth notating yet still unbound, intangible emotions through heavy fog flickering on this binding screen. in fear, memory departs.
the ache in your feet is restless, worn to shape by narrow streets, charting Milan and floating Venice, so many cities and rest stops between them; alas, against all the trees these names and places without grain or picture. is it remembered.
The woman leaning out her window and waving a red scarf is like a bird on a branch singing out a scarlet song. She does not see me framed by these curtains gasping through the panes of my hotel window, inlaid upon the face of a gray building, and risen up into the sky. I cannot decide if I am watching a woman or really an animated postcard.
Her voice carries out to me though, rushing through the traffic below where the valley of buildings converge to narrow rivers paved cold with rain and wet eyes gleaming on metal hulls of swift-moving movement, oiled over like an Impressionist’s dream. Past the pale cars, her voice beckons, a lithe finger.
Quite suddenly, I am in love.
a ten day dream and only these carrion phrases remain, scrawled on the back of a paper receipt in a dimly lit hotel room. quite suddenly indeed, quite suddenly i am sick with longing for actions and events gone to obscurity.
in love with a darkening Continent.
[Original Post Date: 10/30/2004]