Her coat is green.

The blazes,

Pouring out of the smokestacks

In the industrial wasteland 

Behind her, are orange.

Figures emerge

From the fog.

The shack, where they claw and tear at the walls,

is red.


The grass,

Where the dead body

May or may not lie,

is purple.

He painted it.


The poet as a boy just sitting on a log Photo provided by Wonderlust

We hear a train,

But there are no train tracks

Anywhere nearby.


The final shot,

The eclipse, is a street lamp.

The camera climbs towards it

After it has circled and searched

Everywhere we have seen them

Where they no longer are…

The bus stop,

The corner,

The stock exchange,



Blinking lights…

And blinking lights.


The adventure is a tragedy.

Someone disappears.

The night is longing and emptiness.

They stumble

Back and forth

Like failures

In the Po River valley.

Mount Vesuvius

Towers in the distance

Over the death of their love,

Over everything.

The search is futile.


Jeanne Moreau – 1958 Photo provided by Wonderlust

In a night club,

A black woman sings,

Coiling like a serpent

Among the tables.

Jeanne Moreau walks

And walks and walks

Through the streets of Rome.

It is day. It is night.

It doesn’t matter.

It is nothing.


The desert is a sand pit

Filled with lies and disguises.


A porcupine is dead on the side of the street

As I write this.

It’s spindly spines,

Innocent now.

That is not in the movie,

But in the movie 

Of my life

Where the movies are.