Marcel with a turquoise pencil crayon

In 1946, we ducked under an orange
spangled tent curtain, over the bare
grass-dust. Smells of dark tobacco and
tinny phonograph songs. Marcel as a
sharp-whiskered fox; when he caught
a wisp of me, he held me like an Indian
snake-basket. I write him ink-alcohol
notes of goodbye, d'origine montreal,
cinnamon bread-dough. at midnight,
in the main tent glittering like hard stars,
Madame DuPont sang soaring sentimental,
dressed in clothing from the continent, while
we try out sinning in a vacuum.

--

reclaim us, reclaim us from our
drum-circle dances and tuneless
piano captors. Marcel with his
quiet francophone voice, making
faces at my accent while the
phonebooths collapse and a lady
on a unicycles wobbles past, I
receive a danger & save me whole.

--

Marcel with a turquoise pencil crayon,
I wish on the back of his neck-
leather notebooks and gazing balls
build him monuments. And he builds me
micro-Victrolas, so we fall back to dancing,
to tuneless, tiny waltzes.