FIRST NIGHT IN FRANCE
Pulling apart the pullet
I bought at market
by pointing because
I don't know French.
Stem of my wine glass
smeared with oil.
Across the rooftops,
clay chimney pots
and laundry airing.
That time of evening
when women wearing
one earring
turn to their husbands
and smile.
Pulling apart the pullet
I bought at market
by pointing because
I don't know French.
Stem of my wine glass
smeared with oil.
Across the rooftops,
clay chimney pots
and laundry airing.
That time of evening
when women wearing
one earring
turn to their husbands
and smile.