The wind’s effusive melody
brings me recollections of earlier times.
Some fish bones. The remains of a campfire.
A guitar pick buried in the sand.
A cherub blowing a trumpet.
“Did you remember to pack some underwear, dear?”
From the distance we sounded like little sparrows,
twilling and fliterring and hopping about.
The river rushed through with the force
of thirteen Alexander the Greats.
Your hands moved over my body
like hungry, horny spiders.
“Yes, my love. I packed two pairs.”
The gendarme whistled for us to stop,
but we were too busy laughing and running away.
Out of the corner of my eye I spied the fountain,
and the cloud of gray pigeons circling the statue.
The sough of the wind reminds me of
fragments I wish I could store in a cigar box,
instead of this head of regret.