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Memory, Love, and Personals
| Article
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10819 |
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Section : |
The Arts
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| Issue
Date : |
7 / 1986 |
774 Words |
| Author
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Louis Simpson
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With Memory.
And With Love.
I dressed, put my boots on
painfully, and wrote myself a pass.
At the gate the guard gave me a look,
then he smiled, and I was free
to be drunk all over Paris.
For years after the war
I would dream I still hadn't found
what I was looking for. I'd be walking
in a street filled with whispers
looking for a certain door.
It is late. I have to be getting back
to the hospital. I hear my footsteps
echoing in darkness and desolation.
*****
Peace, in all your avenues
new galaxies are shining...
Chocolats Lindt Montres Kody
Coryse Salome Parfums
"Tourism," a sign announces, "in Germany."
There's Saint-Germain...the café
where for a year I was a student.
I used to know these streets
and windows, all the stuffed animals
in the rue du Bac, the lion,
hyena, buffalo, and baby camel...
and would often stop to gaze
in the Seine, at the fire brigade
still caressing their "Souqui"
though all her brass and varnish glitters.
Les Halles, where we used to eat onion soup
is now a huge glass arboretum
where discotheques and boutiques blossom.
The young hang out there, in jeans...
unisex. The more outrageuous
shave their heads, leaving a strip
down the middle, dyed orange or green.
That is the latest thing, a "mohican."
But the women around Saint-Denis
stick to skirts and high heels or boots.
Plus ca change ... their clients are sentimental.
...
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